And You Will Know Me Still
by theicemenace
Summary: Bucky Barnes was set adrift after the fall of SHIELD. Where will he go? How will he survive? Will he be able to exist in a world he's unprepared for? Or will he have to rely on the kindness of strangers to get get by?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Spoilers! This story immediately follows the events in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. Hope you enjoy.

As always, many thanks go out to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;  
>And you will know me still.<br>I shall be only a little taller  
>Than when I went."<br>― Edna St. Vincent Millay, _The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems_

**Winter Soldier**

**And You Will Know Me Still**

**Chapter 1**

"Then finish it, 'cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

The Asset stopped in mid-swing at the words from his opponent. Deep inside, something dug at his brain, winding its way through his synapses. A voice barely heard, coming from so far away that it didn't even sound human. Briefly, a scene flashed behind his eyes of a scrawny, sickly young man looking up at him, the sadness of recent loss making his blue eyes seem dull and lifeless.

_Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own._

He heard another voice that sounded like his own, though less harsh, warm even. Filled with an emotion he couldn't define.

_The thing is you don't have to. I'm with you to the end of the line, pal._

He heard the same words inside his head, as if from a long ways away. The two visions overlapped, merged, and became one. His opponent had called him Bucky when they fought on the bridge and just now, he'd said, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I'm not gonna fight you." He dropped the shield, the circle of metal spinning into the smoke coming from the helicarrier's destroyed engines. "You're my friend."

_If they didn't know each other, then why did he save me? I was pinned, couldn't get free. He could've let me die, but he didn't. Why? And why did I instinctively respond when he whispered the name Bucky?_

"You're my mission. MY MISSION!" More and more questions filled his mind even as he pummeled the other man until his face was a bloody mess and he was barely conscious.

One eye was swollen shut and his lips were bloody, yet somehow, he managed to speak. Just a few words, but it was enough. "Then finish it, 'cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

The Asset panted hard, his metal arm raised to deliver yet another blow, his throat rasping with every breath. But he couldn't do it. He'd never hesitated to complete a mission before. Why now?

The sound of the ship disintegrating reverberated around them. It changed to a loud groaning accompanied by the rending of metal, sounding the death knell of a gigantic beast. Before the Asset could do more than turn his head, one of the engines broke loose and smashed through the catwalk, knocking the other man out into space. The Asset managed to grab onto one of the cross struts with his metal arm, and there he dangled, watching as the other man fell into the river. And in that moment, he made a decision, the first for which he had no instructions from those who'd kept him enslaved.

Opening his fingers, the Asset allowed himself to fall. There was a thrilling moment of anticipation, then he plunged into the cool water of the Potomac. While in the air, he'd altered his course so that he landed in the same area as the man who kept calling him Bucky. He took a deep breath just before he hit, and dived down until he located his opponent. A name teased at the periphery of his mind: Steve. And now that he had a name to go with the face, the combination seemed almost familiar.

The impact with the water reseated his dislocated shoulder, and though the pain was excruciating, the Asset used that arm to propel himself and his cargo to the shore, dropping the heavier man in the mud and standing over him until he was certain he was alive. Steve took a shuddering breath, and another, a thin trickle of water coming from the side of his mouth.

He wanted to stay, to make sure that Steve would be alright. However, his instinct for self-preservation took over. He turned away, trudging through the bushes and reeds growing along the shore, emerging onto an empty field. Glancing into the sky to get his bearings, he ignored the sounds of the first responders headed toward the massive destruction caused by the three enormous ships crashing into the river and onto land, no doubt destroying everything in their paths.

If he was found, he knew that they'd return him to the cold place. Every time they put him into the chamber, he wanted to beg them not to. To let him be free to choose a life for himself, but the programming was so ingrained that he meekly followed orders, even when he knew that extreme pain would follow the words, "Wipe him, and start over."

Pain, blistering cold and killing were the only constants in his world as far back as he could remember. It all started changing after the fight on the bridge when Steve had stared at him slack-jawed and muttered one. A name. "Bucky?"

He reached the other side of the field, orange dust from the baseball diamond coating his boots up to the ankles. Ahead he could see an abandoned warehouse, the crumbling walls covered in surreal drawings and words that meant nothing.

Wiping away the dust and grime coating the windows, the Asset peered into the empty space. Determining that it would serve his purpose at least temporarily, he moved to a rusted metal door, shoved his metal fingers into the small space between the door and the jamb, and yanked it open.

He quietly closed the door, his eyes scanning the vast room, taking in his surroundings. The city noise was muted by distance and the thick concrete walls. The light filtering through the dirt covering the windows gave the area a murky quality. He rubbed his right shoulder, wincing at the twinge of pain. It was much less now than when it happened, tolerable.

The name Bucky didn't feel real to him. Probably wouldn't for some time. It was more like something he'd once heard long ago, and wasn't certain he remembered correctly. However, if he was going to be on his own, he had to have a name. James Barnes. Later, when his true self emerged-_if_ it emerged-he might find it no longer fit, and he'd become Bucky again. But until then, it would have to do.

He located the bathroom, the door screeching on rusted hinges. Brown water flowed into the basin when he turned the knob, smelling of rust and sulfur. He let it flow until it ran clear. With his right hand, he splashed water over his face, rubbing away the soot and grime, the water sliding down to drip off his chin and the end of his nose. Droplets clung to his beard, eyebrows, lashes and the hairs at his crown and temples. Using the heel of his hand, he rubbed his eyes then wiped a drop of water from the end of his nose with the back of his hand.

Fatigue washed through the Asset as he stumbled out into the hallway again, opening doors until he found a room with a sagging, dust covered sofa against one wall. Rusted file cabinets, a desk and a chair with a rotten seat cushion faced the door. A silent watchdog in a place that hadn't seen human life in many years. Stumbling over to the sofa, he collapsed onto it and closed his eyes.

And the first true sleep the Asset had experienced since 1946 was blissfully dreamless.

~~O~~

Standing over the coffee maker, Sam Wilson waited for that last drip before pouring a travel mug full to the brim. He carried it over to the table he used as a desk, took a sip and set it aside. Tapping the keys, he called up the news feeds regarding HYDRA and SHIELD. Aside from the occasional mention of the Kardashians and a few celebrities, the debacle in D.C. and its impact on the US's intelligence network, its economy and its relationships with the rest of the world was all anyone was talking about.

Countless highlighted articles identified Natasha, Steve and Nick Fury, reporting that the latter had died in a single car accident after a high-speed chase with the NYPD, though details on why the cops were after the head of SHIELD were glossed over. Not once was the Winter Soldier mentioned. And from what Fury said, the assassin hadn't been hiding his purpose. With that metal arm, he would most certainly be noticed. Apparently, the government still wielded sufficient power to quash the story and confiscate photos. Sam knew for a fact that not even the government would be able to locate all photos of the incident. Someone would be missed, and Sam was certain that they'd show up on the Internet soon. Whoever owned them had played it smart and held onto the photos waiting for the fire to go out. Not that it would stop the FBI or DHS from taking the person or persons responsible into custody and putting the fear of prison into them.

Sam thought of offering his services during the clean-up efforts, but Natasha convinced him not to as that would leave him open to public scrutiny if _his_ connection to the events became known.

His phone beeped with an incoming text. Thumbing the screen, he noted that it had come from a blocked number. He was about to delete without reading then changed his mind when he saw that it contained a code phrase.

The message gave him time and place for a meet, and included the code phrase so he would know it wasn't a HYDRA ploy to draw him out. After his fight with Rumlow and rescue by helicopter, Sam was let out in a remote area so they wouldn't be seen together. He eventually made his way back home, and had been keeping a low profile, just in case.

He quickly shut down the computer, grabbed his phone, sunglasses, a hoodie and keys on the way out the door. Eschewing his car, he climbed aboard a Harley-Davidson Softail Night Train, smiling as he remembered the day he and Steve met at the park. The second time he'd passed him, Sam had known who he was.

A few minutes later, he rolled up to the park, used his heel to lower the kickstand and shut down the engine. Putting the hood up, he zipped it halfway, and took off down the path that led to the Reflecting Pool.

As he got closer, Sam could see a woman sitting alone, chewing gum and blowing bubbles, fully engrossed in her smart phone. She too wore a hooded sweatshirt, and the upper half of her face was obscured by a huge pair of sunglasses. He came to a stop and nodded at the bench. "That seat taken?"

She scooted over to make room, giving him a small smile that he returned.

"Right on time." Natasha looked up at him, making him wonder how so many different women could be wrapped up inside such a petite package.

Dropping onto the bench next to her, Sam rested his elbows on his knees. "What's the news?"

"Steve's in surgery. He'll be released a few days."

He sighed with relief. "He can stay at my place while he's recouping. You can too, if you want."

Looking down at the ground, he was startled when Natasha took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Thanks for the offer. I'm staying in the cave. Wanna join us?"

"Just might do that. My lease is up soon." He looked around, giving the impression to anyone watching that he was thinking deep thoughts. "Think they'll let me in to see Steve?"

"You're down as his emergency contact, so yes." Natasha's phone beeped. Her jaws worked the pink wad while she scanned email, her features tightening is a small show of irritation. Sam stood when she did. "My contact wants to meet."

Crossing his arms, Sam frowned. "About Steve's friend turned HYDRA assassin?"

Nodding, Natasha took a piece of paper from her pocket, spit her gum into it and wadded it into a ball. "Was hoping the KGB would come up empty."

"Fat chance." Hands in his pockets, Sam watched Natasha walk away without looking back wishing he could turn his emotions on and off the way she did. After a while, Sam made his way back to the parking lot, fired up the Softail and aimed for the hospital.

~~O~~

A few blocks from the hospital, Sam pulled over to let an ambulance pass then continued his ride. At the information desk, he was given Steve's room number, thanking God that his friend wasn't in the ICU. He presented his VA ID and was given access to the room.

In short order, he'd set up the iPod speaker docking station, cued up the _Trouble Man_ soundtrack and switched it on. Pulling a chair close to the bed, Sam picked up a tattered _Sports Illustrated_.

Marvin Gaye had just told him that there were only three things for sure: taxes, death and trouble, when a weak voice murmured, "On your left."

Sam smiled, knowing that Steve would be alright now. A few minutes later, the nurse came in to check on Steve, but he'd already gone back to sleep.

It was full night before Steve awoke again, and by then Sam had left and come back with a paper bag. Sam knew that the super-soldier wouldn't want to hang around to be questioned incessantly by the powers that be, or at least those who were left once the known HYDRA agents had been imprisoned. Steve would want to touch base with Natasha and Fury.

Steve shifted in the bed and opened his eyes. "You still here?"

"Where else am I gonna go?" He reached down and dropped the bag on the bed. Flicking his eyes to the guards at the door then down to his lap, Sam used hand signals to tell Steve the number of guards, their locations, and how they were armed. "Told 'em I was with the VA."

Crossing one leg over the other, Sam looked up at the ceiling to his right then to his left and back to Steve, telling him where the cameras were located.

Using hand signals, Steve gave him a time frame for getting out. That he'd try to leave was a given. The men just had to pick the time that would work in their favor. The time when the guards would likely be careless. From the looks of things, these men and women never got distracted or complacent. No matter the circumstances, they expected the worst and were prepared for it. Or so they thought.

Natasha told Sam about Steve laying waste to an attack squad inside an elevator. Steve had also just survived the destruction of a helicarrier, near drowning and emergency surgery, yet he looked as though he'd only been in a minor traffic accident and was being kept overnight for observation.

The doctor came in to examine his patient and ordered a tray. The nurse came in, set the tray on the table over his bed and removed the cover. The meal consisted of tea, juice, gelatin, broth, crackers and applesauce. Just the thought turned Sam's stomach. Steve plowed through it like he hadn't eaten for a week, making a face at the taste of the applesauce. Sam supposed that his enhanced metabolism required at least double the calories of the average adult male, and what they'd brought him didn't even come close.

Chuckling, Sam shook his head. "Slow down, Steve. You just had surgery, remember?"

Setting the bowl aside, Steve wiped his mouth before speaking. "Why don't you go on home and get some rest? I should be up and around tomorrow."

Sam got to his feet, tapping the iPod and giving Steve a pointed stare. "I'm leavin' this with you. Just in case you get bored." It was the closest he could come to telling his friend that there was information on the device for him to listen to. "I'll be back tomorrow around noon. I'll bring you some contraband."

Steve's smile was answer enough.

As Sam walked back to the stairs, he could feel the eyes of the guards drilling holes in the back of his head, and it made him wonder who they were protecting, Steve, or the rest of the world _from_ Steve.

~~O~~

While this was going on, the surgical staff were working hard to save the life of a man burned over ninety percent of his body. He also had numerous bruises, scrapes and cuts, rounded out with so many breaks that the surgeon stopped counting. His concussion was severe enough that amnesia was almost a certainty. They wouldn't know for sure until he woke up. _If_ he woke up.

What they wouldn't know until much later, was that the man's name was Brock Rumlow, and that he'd been injured while taking part in the incident at SHIELD headquarters. It would take a lot longer for anyone to find out that he was also an agent for HYDRA, but by then, Rumlow would've succumbed to his injuries or be sent off to a rehab center that provided long-term care for burn victims. Rumlow would more than likely escape and disappear into the dark underbelly of New York City's lower east side where he'd grown up, hiding until he decided on the best way to get revenge.

The hospital staff would most definitely care that they'd had a hand in saving the life of a man who was directly responsible for thousands of deaths, most of which had been the crew of the three helicarriers SHIELD had been forced to destroy, inside the Triskelion and the surrounding area.

And though the families of those who died wouldn't agree, the deaths of a few thousand was a small price to pay to save millions. The SHIELD agents would've preferred that no one die, but that hadn't been an option. HYDRA believed that the ends justified the means, and if that meant the deaths of innocent civilians, so be it.

SHIELD had been founded under one doctrine-protection-and it would do so again. Those that remained would be tasked with rebuilding. How that would come about, no one was completely certain.

~~O~~

Night had long ago draped itself over Washington D.C. when the man once known as the fist of HYDRA, the Winter Soldier, awakened in a dark and musty office of an abandoned warehouse.

Pushing to his feet, he stumbled into the bathroom, and turned the water on. The only light came from outside, filtered through nearly a decade of dirt and grime, and the rustling leaves of a tree.

Cupping both hands, he splashed water on his face. He was thirsty, but knew not to drink this water. The cool liquid shocked him to wakefulness, and it was then that the events of the day came back to him. He knew he should be ashamed of the things he'd done, and soon he would be. But first, he needed to sort out the bits and pieces of the past that had invaded his waking mind. The image that stood out above the others was the face of a man who'd called him Bucky. He said they were friends, that they'd known each other all their lives. However, his most vivid recollections were of the two of them fighting. On a bridge, in the street, and again in an enormous flying ship called a helicarrier.

Steve. The name came to him once again, bringing to mind the face of a blonde man with intelligent blue eyes, wearing a blue, white and red jumpsuit, the upper half of his face obscured by a cowl. He carried a round shield that resembled the American flag. But what America was and how he knew what the flag looked like was concealed beneath many years of conditioning he didn't even know were there. Walls that prevented him from accessing memories that were more than a few days old.

Now, another memory floated to the surface. And a name: Howling Commandoes. With it came the vision of over a hundred men marching through Germany, hiding, fighting, and surviving. It filled him with a sense of pride. Not only in himself, but in the man at whose side he trudged, more tired than he'd ever been. Yet, in spite of the fatigue, he was filled with excitement as they came to a stop in front of a stern older man in uniform and a beautiful, dark-haired woman with a British accent.

"_You're late._"

Steve, always ready with a smirk and a smart remark, held up the broken transmitter. "_Couldn't call my ride_."

The Asset heard his own voice saying, "_Let's hear it for Captain America!_"

A noise drew his attention. Going to the window, he peeked out, but didn't see anything or anyone. No cars, no people. He became aware of more immediate problems when a grumbling noise came from his midsection. It was accompanied by an odd pressure in his lower abdomen.

Going to the toilet, he relieved his bladder. That left only the hollow feeling near his navel. Recognizing it as hunger, the Asset found that he literally could not remember the last time he ate. There wouldn't be anything edible here. Not after the place had been vacant so long.

His enhanced vision guided him to the exit, and just as he was about to open the door, the light glinted off his metal arm. Most people didn't have a limb made of metal. How he knew that, he couldn't remember. It also stood to reason that the rescue teams would know by now that he hadn't died in the crash of the helicarrier, and his description would've gone to the police and National Guard. His clothing was too conspicuous, so before he located food, he'd have to find something else to wear.

The main exit was covered by a bright light. Leaving that way, he could be seen. Staying against the walls of the building, he made his way around until he came to a window that looked out onto a dark and decaying loading dock. Easing the window open, he climbed over the sill, landing without a sound on the hard concrete.

Keeping to the shadows, he made his way down one stinking alley after another until he came to a door marked with the name of a sporting goods store. He used his metal hand to pull the metal slab free. Tossing it away, he stepped over the threshold to the accompaniment of the jangling alarms. Moving fast, he grabbed what he needed and was long gone before the police arrived. Scanning the sides of the other buildings, he soon found a fire escape.

He ran and jumped, catching hold of the railing, pulling himself up and over. Quickly and quietly, he climbed to the roof, hiding between two heating units until the police left the area before changing his clothes.

Along with the clothing, he'd take a prepackaged meal and a cold drink from the cooler. He ripped it open and devoured the contents, then a second and a third before the stomach pangs finally stopped. The Asset pulled the sides of the jacket closed, lay down on his side and went to sleep, and didn't awaken again until the morning sun shone in his face.

A little while later, he made his way to the mouth of the alley, his left hand shoved into a pocket while he worked out his next move. He had no money and it didn't take long for him to see that panhandling wasn't going to work for him.

Up ahead, he came to a tan building trimmed in white with a six-pointed star over the entrance. He climbed the stairs and went inside. A man was standing at the white draped podium shuffling papers. The rustling sound stopped when he spotted his visitor. "Shalom, my son."

Because he'd been conditioned not to speak except to his team, the Asset hesitated before saying, "I don't have anywhere to go." As if it were an afterthought, he added, "Please."

By this time, the other man had come down to stand in front of the Asset, peering at him curiously through a pair of wire frame glasses. His silver hair was cut short, covered with yarmulke. A white and blue shawl with fringe hung over his shoulders. Seeing this, he realized he'd entered a synagogue.

"Dear boy, you look _fermisht_." Taking the Asset's arm, the bent and wizened man urged him toward the side door. "Come with me. I'll get you a hot meal, and you can stay here tonight. I'm Norman Shulman, rabbi of this house of the Lord. You can call me Rabbi Norman, or just Norman. Whatever you like." When the Asset didn't immediately respond, Norman smiled kindly. "What's your name, _boychick?_"

They came to another door, and through the small window set into the wood, the Asset could see a warm and inviting kitchen. Norman was looking at him oddly, obviously expecting an answer. He had a momentary urge to use the name Bucky. Instead, he gave the only other name he knew. "Barnes. James Barnes."

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Spoilers! This story immediately follows the events in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. Hope you enjoy.

As always, many thanks go out to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;  
>And you will know me still.<br>I shall be only a little taller  
>Than when I went."<br>― Edna St. Vincent Millay, _The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems_

**Winter Soldier**

**And You Will Know Me Still**

**Chapter 2**

Pushing open the door, Norman ushered James inside. Just as he imagined it would be, the room was cozy and inviting. His host pulled out a chair and James gratefully sat down. An enticing scent touched a long forgotten memory. The smiling face of a woman with dark hair set a steaming bowl of meat and vegetables in a kind of broth in front of him. A child's small hand picked up a spoon and began eating. Somehow, he knew that she was his mother. Perhaps those who'd imprisoned him had only thought all had been erased.

The older man finished washing his hands, and that reminded James to do so as well, casting a glance over his shoulder and turning so his host wouldn't see. He returned to his seat and the clatter of silverware brought his attention back to Norman. The older man turned back to the stove where he filled two bowls from a pot. He handed one bowl to James and placed the other in front of the remaining chair. Bowing his head, Norman said a short prayer.

Puzzled by Norman's words, James watched him pick up his spoon to begin eating. As if he'd never seen one before, he picked up the spoon next to his bowl. Copying the other man's actions, he scooped up a chunk of meat and a carrot, bringing it to his mouth. The moment the food touched his tongue, James's stomach growled, and he realized that it had been a very long time since he'd had anything solid to eat. A short vision of being forced to drink a vile tasting liquid blinked inside his head and was vanquished as he shoveled the food into his mouth.

James was more than halfway through the stew when a wrinkled hand grasped his wrist. "Slow down, _boychick_. You'll make yourself sick."

The clenching of James's stomach came at the same time as Norman's advice. His body wasn't used to solid foods, and eating too much too fast would be a waste as he'd likely vomit it all up. Setting the spoon beside the bowl, James sipped hot tea while Norman spread a thin layer of butter on a slice of bread and passed it to him. Norman dipped the bread in the gravy puddled in the bottom of his own bowl and bit off that part. Again, James copied him, expecting the bread to taste soggy. Instead, he enjoyed the taste so much, he did it again and again until the bread was gone.

When he'd finished, Norman stood and carried his bowl to the sink. Following, James did the same, even rinsing the bowl and spoon under the water. As Norman bustled around the kitchen putting things away, James watched him, not knowing what to do next.

"There's a bed in the guest room, if you'd like to stay a couple of nights." Norman led James down the short hallway. He pushed open the first door on the right and flicked on the light. "The bed's already made up with clean sheets. There's a blanket in the hall closet with the towels, if you need it. Bathroom's on the left. Toothbrush in the left hand drawer." His lined face brightened. "And I might even have some clothes to fit you."

Shuffling down the hall, Norman went into the kitchen, and a moment later, the back door opened and closed. Not knowing what to do with himself, James went into the room, standing in the middle of the area rug, turning in a circle to take his surroundings. The furniture were remnants from an earlier time. He reached out to touch the wooden footboard with his metal hand. Stopping in mid reach, he turned the hand over to look at the palm, flexing the fingers. When he touched things, he could feel them, even with his eyes closed he could tell what something was by the texture and shape, though he wasn't certain how.

The back door slammed again, and soon, Norman joined him once more. James quickly tucked his left hand behind his back. If Norman had seen his prosthesis, he gave no indication. Everything he'd worn, including the gloves, had been made of leather. As it dried, it began to smell. One reason he'd changed. Another reason was if the authorities were looking for him, he'd be less recognizable in flannel and jeans he now wore.

Norman tossed a pile of clothes on the foot of the narrow bed. "We just had a clothing drive. Those should fit."

As some response seemed to be required, James nodded. His host smiled back, and as he reached the door, his voice barely above a whisper, James said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, son. If you need anything during the night, just knock on my door. And help yourself to the food in the kitchen if you get hungry later."

The door closed, leaving the room partially filled with a weak glow from the lamp on the bedside table. Removing the jacket, James cast his eyes around the confines of the small room. The bed was narrow, not much larger than a cot.

Bits and pieces of memory floated through his mind like motes of dust. They just kept moving, never staying still long enough for him to see them clearly. The face of a woman he thought might be his mother, an older man who could've been his father, a scrawny young man with sandy hair. Joining them was a stern older man wearing olive drab, marching through the woods, being sedated while someone injected him, falling from a great height, excruciatingly painful experiments.

The last was so vivid that pain pierced his head and the room began to spin. Feeling behind him for the bed, he touched the edge of the mattress and gratefully sank onto it. Squeezing his eyes shut, James willed the vision-and the pain-to stop, and to his relief, it did.

He removed his boots, setting them next to the bed. Then, he took off the flannel shirt and the white tee underneath and went to the mirror to examine where metal and flesh were joined. Pressing his fingers over the seam, he felt only the pressure of his touch, not the touch itself. It didn't hurt, nor did it feel good. It didn't feel like anything. Especially where the flesh was scarred and puckered. Something in the mechanical arm allowed his brain to interpret the sensory impulses in a way that felt normal, or rather what he thought of as normal. Now he knew it wasn't. When he thought of the meaning of the word, he realized that he hadn't been or done anything that could be considered typical in a very long time.

Fatigue washed over James as he returned to the bed. He donned the pajamas, turned off the light and lay down, left hand on his stomach and the right tucked under his pillow. He stared up at the ceiling watching the light filtering in through the curtains create amorphous shapes that merged and melded, eventually lulling him to sleep.

And during that sleep, he saw more visions that he didn't even try to make sense of upon waking. For now, he dismissed the past and concentrated on getting through one day at a time.

**Over a Week Later**

Though he'd meant to move on after resting for a day or so, James found himself reluctant to leave the security of the synagogue. Norman had welcomed him into his home without knowing anything about him other than his name. The rabbi didn't ask questions about his past, or what his plans were for the future. He just let James hang around, and in return, James performed a few services for him, cleaning and repairs, mostly.

Once, Norman had found him staring curiously at the eastern wall. Norman told him it was where the _aron ha-kodesh_-the holy ark-was located. The ark, he explained was the repository for the Torah scrolls when they are not in use. It also served as the focus for one's prayers. Above the ark was the _ner tamid_-the eternal light-recalling the eternal light in the Temple as described in Exodus 27:20-21.

He carried groceries and other supplies in from the car, and even functioned as a sounding board for the coming week's sermon, reminding James of church with his mother and father, all three in their Sunday best. Mom always wore white gloves and a hat, and dad had spent the time before and after talking with the other men about baseball in summer and football in winter.

Strange that he should remember that, then nothing until the fights with Steve, the red haired woman and the other man, the one with the metal wings who looked like a bird of prey. He remembered that his mission was to stop them from neutralizing the helicarriers and that the orders had come from a man who'd once offered him milk.

At the time, he hadn't quite understood the question and so had not responded, not even after the man had killed the woman called Renata without a second thought. He'd watched it happen and had felt nothing at the time. Now, he wasn't certain _what_ he was feeling. Shame, remorse, regret?

In his sermon, Norman had made two valid points. The first was a quote from a man by the name of Edmund Burke, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

James felt that he'd once been a good and just man, and that his life had been twisted around until he was no longer that man.

The second point made was another quote, this one from a man by the name of Friedrich Nietzsche. "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

Whatever he'd done, or had been done _to_ him, hadn't killed him. It had made him physically stronger while at the same time removing his will to resist. Today was the day his resolve strengthened. He had been turned into the evil that triumphed. It was time for him to stand firm and say, "No more!"

~~O~~

The _Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti_, better known as the KGB, was the main security agency for the Soviet Union from 1954 until its collapse in 1991. At least that's what Russia and her satellite states allowed the rest of the world to think. All the dissolution of the USSR did was drive the agents and the agency farther underground. Around the same time, the orphaned Natasha Romanoff was placed in a specialized program that trained their charges in the art of espionage beginning at the age of seven. Now referred to as the 2R facility, its existence had come to light years ago, the Black Widows-as the female agents were called-attaining legendary status.

Now that Natasha's dark past, as well as her years of atonement for the crimes she committed had been exposed, she needed time. Time to figure out who she really was, and what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. In no way could she see herself as a soccer mom, working in an office, or even as a ballerina.

The reminder of the false memories planted in her brain by Ivan Petrovitch and his team of madmen and women posing as doctors made her angry again. They'd given her false memories of being a prima ballerina as well as a marriage and widowhood. Anger bubbled inside her, but she wouldn't lash out. She'd save it. Savor it, then one day soon, maybe she could use it to do good once more instead of the evil that Petrovitch had made her and the others do. That day would come again, and perhaps more of the red in her ledger would be wiped out.

~~O~~

At the same time that was happening, Natasha received a subpoena requiring her to appear before a hastily formed subcommittee tasked to investigate the activities of HYDRA _and_ SHIELD. Prior to the start of the hearings, Natasha contacted a friend within the KGB, and soon, a file was delivered by special courier. She read it over, then made copies for her own use before handing it over to Steve.

Steve had been released to attend Fury's "funeral" in an hour. Natasha had already ordered the headstone placed over the grave next to Fury's family. There would be a service, though most of those that would normally have come were so far off the grid they couldn't even see the path to the grid. These individuals couldn't risk coming out into the open at a set place and time that was known to the world or they could end up like her, subjected to questioning by a subcommittee whose ultimate purpose was unknown. The men and women on that committee could be HYDRA for all they knew. Or worse, the committee could have its own agenda that had nothing to do with HYDRA.

Brushing her hair, Natasha briefly thought about going back to blonde, but decided against it. The red was more her style. The straightener should wear off in a few weeks leaving her with the curls again. Then, she'd cut it. The less time spent on her hair, the better. Especially now.

Taking a modest black dress from the closet, she pulled it on over her bra and panties. She slid her feet into low heels, added earrings, bracelet, necklace and watch. On her way to the door, she drew the veil of her small black velvet hat down over her face, pulled on black gloves, picked up a small clutch purse and her keys.

The drive to the cemetery didn't take long, and soon Natasha was standing alongside Steve, Clint, Sam, Bruce, Sharon Carter, and a few others who dared be seen in public with the Avengers. Some had come in the standard SHIELD disguise of hoodie and dark sunglasses or baseball cap and nerd glasses. It gave Natasha a much needed moment of humor that she hid behind a tissue wadded in her hand and waited for the service to end.

~~O~~

"…_Just this morning, the doctors at Mercy General have informed us that Captain America, Steve Rogers, will be well enough to be released from the hospital in the next day or so. The administrator, Mr. Edward Forsythe, refused to give a specific time in order to preserve Captain America's privacy._

"_Rogers was involved in repelling the alien invasion over Manhattan two years ago. He was the leader of a team that calls themselves the Avengers. And one has to wonder what the rest of the team was doing while HYDRA was growing right under their noses. _

"_Earth's mightiest heroes? The curator at the Smithsonian doesn't think so. While the Howling Commando exhibit remains on display, the mannequin that once sported the red, white and blue uniform Captain America wore during World War II has been replaced by the one depicting Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, the only member of the Howling Commandoes to lose his life during that time._

"_This is John Harriman for WZNN News_."

Lying in bed listening to the radio tuned to an "oldies" station, James decided that it would soon be time for him to move on. He couldn't stay with Norman indefinitely. There was always a chance that HYDRA, the police, or some other law enforcement agency, clandestine or otherwise, would come looking for him. To stay would place Norman, the congregation, and the neighborhood in danger. Those that came after him wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who got between them and their target. He had no way of knowing from where they would come, but he knew it would be soon. They'd begin with searching the area around the crash sites and work outward until they determined that he'd left D.C.

_People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen_.

The words Steve said came back to James, and this time he heard the pain behind them. Had he once felt such emotion at the deaths of the innocent? Though he tried, James could only recall small snatches of his past life. _Lives_.

If everything Steve had said was true, and he had no reason to doubt him, then James was just beginning his third life. The first was his true self, the one he'd been born into that had ended sometime in the mid-forties. His second life, if it could be called that, began when HYDRA used him as an instrument of death and continued until James had made the decision to save Steve, to no longer blindly follow orders as he'd been conditioned to do.

Raising his metal arm, James dragged his right palm over the warm metal up to his shoulder and in toward his neck, stopping when he touched flesh. As he'd done on numerous occasions since coming here, he traced the edge of the prosthetic around to the back of his shoulder then up under his arm. And like the previous times, a memory came to him. The difference being that this one was pleasant, and included another.

James was laughing and trying to get away from someone who pursued him relentlessly, digging his fingers into the spot just below his armpit where he was ticklish. Closing his eyes, he let the images come without forcing them, and soon, he could see the face of his tormentor, a boy the same age as he, sandy-haired with blue eyes and a skinny, underdeveloped body.

Suddenly the boy rolled away and got to his feet, hands on his knees as he fought to draw air into his lungs. James saw himself laying a comforting hand on the other's back, looking up when the door opened and a pretty, dark-haired woman looked in. Once the other boy stopped wheezing and coughing, she looked relieved and shut the door.

Certain that the other boy was Steve, James switched out the light and lay in the dark. He'd promised Norman that tomorrow he'd finish the repairs he was doing in the choir loft. Once that was done, James would take his leave, and his first stop would be the Smithsonian. There, he would visit the Howling Commandoes exhibit. All the information he was looking for should be there.

He listened to the creaking of the old wooden floors as Norman shuffled down the hall to his room and shut the door. The older man moved about the room, changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth and getting into bed. And as he always did, the former soldier waited until Norman fell asleep before tiptoeing to the kitchen and out the back door to patrol the area.

Night was when he was the most restless. He disliked feeling vulnerable, and wondered how Norman had made it to his advanced age without being fatally injured or killed by another. James had come to the conclusion that it was the older man's personality-the fact that he was exceptionally likable and bore no animosity toward anyone-that had kept him safe.

Hours later, James felt ready to sleep. Though he didn't want to, he knew it was necessary to reinvigorate. Eating did that as well, but now he knew that they worked in conjunction to keep his body fit. Apparently, maintaining health also included grooming. His host had been subtle in his hints that James shower, wash his hair, brush his teeth, and so forth. However, he didn't understand until Norman came right out and told him to get showered after a day of working in the yard hauling bags of mulch.

James counted himself lucky that he was found by the elderly rabbi and not someone else. Every time a police vehicle came past the church, James would hide his face or go inside. Norman couldn't have missed his aversion, but was kind enough not to make an issue of it.

Soon, he was asleep, his dreams filled with frightening images. Being captured by men wearing the uniform of the enemy. A man with greasy hair and round glasses directing him to be strapped to a table while he gave him injections, the contents of the syringes unknown, turning his blood to fire, burning their way through his body. A man with a red face. Falling from a great height. Waking up in a strange place surrounded by men and women in white coats doing unspeakable things to him. Then, the icy cold. Each vision was more frightening than the last.

Eventually, James's agitation calmed and he fell into a restful sleep.

In the morning, he awakened just as he had the past few days: to the scent of food cooking and that other smell, the dark brown liquid. He dressed and made his way down the hall to the kitchen, and just like every morning, he found Norman standing at the gas stove. He used a spatula to flip the items in the cast iron skillet, and a short time later, scoop them onto a plate. James sat down just as Norman set a plate in front of him. The food was unfamiliar, and he stared at it with a frown then poked it with a fork. "What is it?"

"French toast." Setting a bottle of syrup on the table, Norman grinned. "Just _try_ it,_ boychick_." Norman returned with two cups of coffee and saw that James still hadn't started to eat. He picked up the syrup and poured a generous amount over James's then his own.

Using the fork and knife, James cut a piece of the fried bread, put it in his mouth and chewed. The moment it touched his tongue, his eyes went wide. It was amazing! Sweet, yet it tasted of eggs and bread, the combination making all three so much better.

James ate almost without chewing, and soon, his plate was empty. He used the last bite of bread to scoop up the bits of syrup remaining on the plate and followed it up with the coffee. Norman chuckled and James looked over at him. "I like it."

"Want more?"

James shook his head. He was still hungry, but his stomach wasn't used to large amounts of solid food. Did that mean he'd only been fed liquids up till now? He couldn't remember. Sometimes he thought if he could just be still long enough, the past would come back to him. Not like his dreams, which faded into mist as soon as he awakened, leaving him frustrated.

Pushing his chair back, James stacked the dishes and silverware together, and set them in the sink. "I should get to work."

Norman just smiled. "Leave the balcony for now. Could you repair the fence in the back?"

Nodding once, James acknowledged the request as if it were an order. And because it seemed important to Norman, he tried to smile. The time he spent practicing smiling in the mirror last night paid off when Norman returned it.

Going out the back door, James went to the storage shed and took out the tools he would need to finish repairing the fence. Hoisting the stack of boards onto his left shoulder, he picked up the toolbox with the other hand. Leaning the boards against a tree, he took out the nails and hammer. The wood had been pre-treated to withstand the weather, making the repairs easier. How he knew this, he couldn't remember. But today, he wouldn't worry about what or who he'd been prior to confronting Steve in the helicarrier. Today, he would work on the fence, go inside for meals, and then, after Norman was asleep tonight, he would go on his usual patrol.

The boards were pre-cut to the size needed. All he had to do was put them in place and hammer in the nail. He'd been at it for nearly two hours when he heard a high-pitched squeak. Setting the hammer on top of the fence post, James cocked his head to the side, trying to locate the source of the sound.

There it was again. Off to the right. Slowly, he crept in that direction, his feet making no sound on the soft grass. There was a thump and he heard the plaintive squeak again. A scraping sound came just before a bush moved though there was no wind, and a moment later, a small black and white animal walked into view, long-haired and mostly white, with black on the tail, sides, along the back, and a black mask on her face that left a white triangle with the point ending on the top of her head. When she saw James, she sat down and gazed up at him, her furry tail swishing through the short grass.

"_Reow_."

James found himself reaching out to let the creature sniff his fingers. His memory told him that this was a cat. She must've found him acceptable because she rubbed her cheek on his hand. He ran a hand down her back, enjoying the softness of her fur, but not that he could feel the ridges of her vertebrae and ribs. "Are you hungry?"

She meowed in agreement. Standing, James picked up the cat and returned to the residence by the back door.

~~O~~

At the same time that James was feeding the cat a few bites of leftover hamburger from the night before, Norman was sweeping the lobby when two men in black military uniforms entered, removing their caps as they looked around. They spotted him and took out their IDs. The older man nodded a greeting. "Good morning, sir. I'm Colonel Simms, and this is Major Altman."

Norman leaned the broom against the wall and gave the men his full attention. He gave the IDs a long perusal, comparing the photos to the men, while at the same time, glancing out the window to see armed military personnel keeping watch. At the curb sat two black SUVs. Apparently satisfied, he gave the appearance of being happy to see them. "Welcome to Temple Shalom, gentlemen. Rabbi Norman Shulman, at your service. What brings you here on this fine morning?"

The older man, African-American, over six feet tall and well-muscled with a ram-rod straight spine, reached over his shoulder. The Major passed him a photo which Simms held up so Norman could see it. "We're looking for this man. Have you seen him?"

Taking the photo, Norman turned it toward the light. The picture quality was poor. If he had to guess, he would say that it had been taken from a great distance and enlarged to the point that you could barely make out the face.

The man in the picture had shoulder-length, dark brown hair, several days' growth of beard, and was dressed all in black, except for the left arm which was silver with a red star on the bicep. His blue eyes were so cold and lifeless, Norman almost shivered with the intensity. It was a face he'd seen just that morning over a stack of French toast. It was the young man staying in his guest room, going by the name James Barnes.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Spoiler alert! This story immediately follows the events in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. Hope you enjoy.

As always, many thanks go out to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;  
>And you will know me still.<br>I shall be only a little taller  
>Than when I went."<br>― Edna St. Vincent Millay, _The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems_

**Winter Soldier**

**And You Will Know Me Still**

**Chapter 3**

As James carried the cat across the yard and into the kitchen, he felt a vibration all along the area where her side pressed against his chest. She didn't seem to notice or care that he had a metal arm. In fact, when he rubbed her head, it didn't seem to matter which hand he used. He stroked a finger over the top of her head. She closed her eyes and the rumbling got louder.

He set her on the floor, took down a small plate and opened the refrigerator to search for something to give her. There was leftover hamburger from the night before. He broke the meat up into smaller chunks and set the plate on the floor. The poor animal had to be starving because she gobbled up the food, making sounds of pleasure in her throat that sounded like nom-nom-nom.

Crouched next to her, James involuntarily smiled. It was a reflexive response to something that amused him. It also gave him cause to wonder how long it had been since he felt genuine happiness. Possibly a very long time ago.

When she'd finished eating, the cat looked up at him, her pink tongue licking her whiskers to get all the bits of meat that clung there. As if reading her mind, he took out a bowl and filled it with water from the tap. She lapped it gratefully then sat down with her tail curled, licking one paw and swiping it over her face and ears. When she finished, she looked up at him. "Now what?"

He rubbed her ears, along her cheeks and under her chin. Once again, he felt and heard the vibrations. Touching her neck showed him that the source was somewhere inside her chest. She didn't seem to be in distress so it had to be a natural phenomenon. Norman would know.

His host said he would be cleaning the vestibule to make it ready for something called a mitzvah. According to Norman, it was a rite of passage for Jewish boys and girls on their thirteenth birthday. James pushed open the door that led to the hallway, making certain it was closed behind him so the cat wouldn't roam around. Exiting the front, he crossed the small garden to the rear of the synagogue. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard voices and the electric crackle of com chatter.

Creeping silently to the corner, he peeked around and quickly retreated. There were about a dozen armed men and women in black uniforms standing guard. Returning to the door, he eased it open and slipped inside, his footsteps making no noise on the carpeting. His enhanced hearing picked up the murmur of strange voices mixed with the pleasant croon of Norman's throaty tones.

~~O~~

Without showing any sign that he knew the man in the photo, Norman handed it back to Simms. However, it was Altman who took it. "Haven't seen him. What's he done?"

"That's not important." Simms tucked both hands behind his back. "No offense, but we'd like to search the premises." Norman could see from the look in the other man's eyes that denying him access would be futile. That assessment was proven at the Colonel's next comment. "It's _not_ a request, Rabbi."

"By all means, help yourself. There's no one here at the moment, though I do have a mitzvah in a couple of hours. I trust you'll be done by then."

"Of course. Altman?"

The major nodded and touched the com in his left ear. "You have a go."

Picking up the broom, Norman went back to sweeping, giving the men a pointed stare when they stayed. Simms turned and left, followed by Altman.

By the time Norman finished sweeping, the squad had finished their search. Simms returned. "We'll need to search your residence as well."

Norman led the way through chapel and out the back. Several of the others were already stationed at the door, and presumably in the back as well. The woman standing to the right entered with two men. "Just don't break anything."

A few minutes later, a crash sent Simms and Altman inside. "Stay!" Simms shouted the order at Norman as if he were a dog. The military men had their weapons out as they burst in through the door.

Against the Colonel's order, Norman followed them inside. Sitting beside a small pile of ceramic shards amid a puddle of water and wilted flowers was a white and black cat, the end of her tail twitching. Norman pushed his way through the group. Stooping, he picked the cat up. "Lucy! You're such a _vida chaya_. I told you to stay off the table."

Simms and Altman holstered their weapons, nodding to the squad. To Norman, Simms said, "Sorry we disturbed you, Rabbi. If you do happen to see the man in the photo, don't approach him. Call 9-1-1 immediately. He's armed and extremely dangerous."

"Of course, Colonel." He ushered the soldiers to the door, more to make certain they'd gone than out of good manners. After they drove out of sight, Norman walked through the house peeking into rooms and closets, carrying the cat over his shoulder like a baby. A light thump came from the hallway, and when he returned, James was standing there. Above him, the attic access was still ajar. James held a finger to his lips then cupped a hand around his ear to let him know that someone could be listening. Pointing at the back door, James silently asked Norman to step outside while he searched the house. Given that surveillance equipment was so small, Norman didn't know how James would find them. Though the soldiers hadn't had much time, he supposed they could've left listening devices.

Doing as James asked, Norman left by the back door, taking the cat with him. Once outside, he scratched the top of her head and she rewarded him with a loud purr. "Don't know where you came from, girl, but you're welcome to stay. We'll fix you up a box, food dish and some water. So you like the name Lucy?" The cat purred louder, giving her approval. "It's settled then. We'll just wait out here till the coast is clear."

Norman put the cat down in the grass. First, she twined herself around his legs, meowing. Then, she scampered back and forth, chasing a butterfly and a grasshopper, making Norman chuckle.

~~O~~

When Norman and the cat were safely out of the house, James removed the glove used to cover his metal hand and slipped out of his jacket. Flexing his fingers in a particular order, he made a slow and methodical search of the house for any surveillance equipment. When he neared such devices, a sort of tingling began in the palm of his hand. He didn't know if it had been programmed or was an unintended side-effect. He'd never mentioned it to the doctors who tended him when he was out of stasis or they would surely have disabled that function. They were never interested in anything he had to say that didn't involve his missions. He couldn't remember all of them, just the most recent ones when the man in the suit had slapped him and said, "Wipe him, and start over." Those words struck fear in his heart, because he would forget everything he'd learned about his former life.

He left the living room and inched down one side of the hall then back the other way. Next he entered Norman's room. The bed was neatly made, an ancient robe tossed on the end. A sweater was hanging over the back of a cushioned chair pushed under a table with a laptop, paper, pens, and a lamp. He obviously sat here to compose his sermons. The closet was the last place James checked, and as in all the other he swept, it was free of electronic surveillance.

James ended his scan with the kitchen. The door to the basement was closed and locked. From his vantage point in the attic, he would've seen and heard if it had been opened. He silently thanked the cat for the distraction she provided, though he had no idea how she'd gotten out of the kitchen with the door closed.

Going to the refrigerator, he took out the pitcher of lemonade and poured two glasses. He put the jacket and glove back on, and motioned to Norman. The clergyman came in, closely followed by the cat. He sat at the table, and James sat across from him. Before he could stop her, the cat was in his lap, patting him on the cheek with a fuzzy paw. He obeyed the not so subtle demand for attention by rubbing under her chin.

"You find anything?"

"No."

Norman sipped the lemonade and set the glass on the table. "Good." He nodded at the cat now pawing at the ties on the hoodie. "You made a new friend."

Taking a long gulp of the cold drink to stall, James worked out how to explain the cat's presence, but could only come up with the truth. "She was hungry, so I fed her."

James supposed that the reason he took the cat in was because they were kindred spirits. Both alone, and in need of a friend. Perhaps that's why he'd been drawn to her. For some reason, the face of the woman, the one with red hair, floated through his mind. He sensed that they were connected in a way that many would not understand.

"Seems to like the name."

"Lucy?"

Norman chuckled. "She reminds me of the _shayner maidel_ in this movie _Lucy_. Now what was her name? Had the sweetest _pupik_."

James didn't completely understand, so he just smiled and drank down the rest of the lemonade. He set the cat on the floor and stood. "I'll go finish the fence."

"While you do that, I'll work in the garden a bit then make us lunch."

He closed the door behind him and crossed the yard to the pile of wood, picking up the hammer and several nails. With his metal arm, he held a board in place, and went back to work. While his hands were busy, his mind thought about the events of the day. Just because he hadn't found bugs didn't mean there weren't any to find. It's possible he could've missed something.

The time for him to leave or risk causing trouble for Norman and the cat was drawing near. But there were things he had to do before he moved on. The most important was visiting the Howling Commandoes exhibit at the museum. He needed to know how his team had fared in the years since he'd last seen them. From there, he'd decide where to go and what to do.

Soon, Steve would come looking for him. Trouble was, James wasn't certain he wanted or deserved to see him again.

Thoughts of Steve brought more brief glimpses of his past. And while the memories were there, they didn't mean as much as he felt they should. There was little or no emotion getting through. He tried not to force it, but he wanted answers, sooner rather than later. He also knew that the memories would come back when his brain let them and not before. His trip to the Smithsonian should help with that.

Putting his questions aside for now, he turned all of his attention to his task. A couple of hours later, Norman called out to tell him to get washed up for lunch. Brushing the dirt from his hands, James packed the tools away, picked up the unused boards and returned it all to the storage shed.

Afterwards, he passed through the kitchen to the bathroom. Examining his face in the mirror, he decided not to shave again. The same with cutting his hair. Less attention would be paid to him if he didn't do anything to stand out, and from what he'd seen, he could even go out in just his skivvies and not draw curious looks.

Running his wet hand through his hair, he wondered when he'd started worrying about his looks. Then, in his head, he heard Norman telling him outright that he had to work on his hygiene.

Returning to the kitchen, he slid into a chair and lay a napkin across his lap before pouring refilling their glasses while Norman brought them each a grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, and small bowls of Cole slaw.

After grace was said, the men ate in silence. And for all that time, Norman kept his eyes riveted on his plate. An unusual occurrence, to be sure. Norman was always studying him, though not in a way that caused concern. More out of curiosity, the way the cat was staring up at them from the floor right now.

She meowed, and Norman glanced down as if he'd forgotten she was there. He pulled a piece of cheese from his sandwich and tossed it to her, smiling when she gobbled it up and waited expectantly for another. Instead of giving her more, he looked at James, his blue eyes filled with sympathy and caring.

~~O~~

Norman let the smile slide from his face. "Something on your mind, son?"

James swallowed before replying. "I have to go out."

His brusque statement was accepted without offense or asking for details. "You can use the car. If you want, I could maybe go with. Promise not to _kibitz_."

Confused by the last word James wiped his mouth and lay the napkin beside his plate. His companion's silence told the older man what couldn't be put into words. Picking up the glass, Norman used it to gesture toward the living room. "Key's by the front door. You'll need to gas up, so grab a few bills from the cookie jar."

The sounds of the city seeped into the room, too far away to be really annoying. Norman finished his drink, pushed the empty plate away, wiped his mouth and hands, and clasped his fingers together on the table. Tilting his chin down, he peered at James over the tops of his wire framed glasses. "Anything you want to talk about, James, come to me. I won't judge or criticize."

The rabbi could see that his guest was genuinely touched by the offer. James looked down at the floor as if seeking answers in the tile pattern. Lucy took that as a signal and jumped into his lap, impatiently awaiting the ear and back rubs that were her due as the resident cat. Absently, James answered her unspoken command, using the uncovered hand, digging the ends of his fingers into her long fur. The boy seemed to weigh each and every word that came out of his mouth, as if he were concerned he'd say the wrong thing. Finally, their eyes met.

"It's best if you don't know."

"I'm not just a _shlemiel_, _boychick_. Keeping secrets, it's what I _do_." He gave the boy's arm a quick squeeze of reassurance. "Let me help."

Setting the cat on the floor amid screeched protests, James got to his feet, picked up the dirty dishes, and set them in the sink.

~~O~~

James stood and looked down at the man he was beginning to think of as a friend. "Trust me, Norman. You're better off not knowing."

He continued toward the door that led to the hall, and though he couldn't see it, James felt Norman's eyes on him. And though he wanted to take the man into his confidence, as far as James was concerned, the subject was closed. Turning away from the eyes that saw more than they should, he strode down the hall to his room, softly shutting the door. From the closet he took clean clothes, tossing them on the foot of the bed. They were faded yet still wearable. Then, he went to the dresser for a T-shirt, socks and boxers. He quickly changed his clothes, put on his boots, and stuck a plain ball cap on his head, tugging the brim low to hide his face somewhat.

Lucy elected to stay with Norman, and he could hear the old man talking to the animal as if she understood. As Norman shuffled down the hall, James cracked the door enough to see the cat walking alongside the elderly man, hanging on his every word. Good. That would make it easier to leave her behind.

The sofa creaked as Norman settled down, and a moment later, the television came on. James waited another few seconds then passed through the kitchen and slipped out the back door to the garage.

Hands in his jacket pockets, he touched the pad where he'd written thoughts and questions that had plagued him since the fight with Steve on the helicarrier. When he thought of himself as Bucky, it was only because that's what Steve had called him. It was the same with the name he'd given Norman. James Barnes. They were convenient labels he used to make communication easier. Maybe today, he'd find out who he really was. After that, who knew what would happen? The only thing he knew for certain is that he would no longer be a tool, an implement of death.

He backed the car out of the garage, shifted into drive and headed for the Smithsonian, parking on a public street several blocks away.

Moving with the flow of humanity into the vast open area that showcased the history of aeronautics, James stopped front of the _Spirit of St. Louis_, the custom-built monoplane that had been flown solo by Charles Lindbergh on May 20–21, 1927 from New York to Paris.

Suspended from the ceiling was a boxy, robot-like apparatus with legs and a lower half that looked like crumpled gold Christmas paper. The Apollo Lunar Module was used from 1969 to 1972, and was designed to ferry astronauts from moon orbit to the surface and back to the capsule, then return the crew of three to Earth. Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collinson were the first Americans to attempt such a feat. That they'd returned home alive amazed James.

Ignoring the other examples of man's ingenuity, James ducked into another room. Sepia colored films drew him into the room dedicated to The Howling Commandoes. Screens set into the walls showed incidents from a past that seemed familiar, as though he were seeing it through a foggy window. If he could just wipe away some of the mist, he might be able to see the past a little more clearly. Moving to one side, he allowed most of the others to pass then followed.

Scanning the walls, James looked for something without knowing what it was, exactly. Off to the right, he spotted a display. Beside it, a video played without sound. Steve, another man with dark hair, his face hidden as he leaned forward, and several others, studied a map laid out on a wooden table, their expressions intense. The scene changed, replaced by James standing beside Captain America, both men smiling, their life-long friendship apparent in the ease with which they made each other laugh.

A few more steps and he was standing in front of the centerpiece of the exhibit. Six mannequins in the brown, green and blue uniforms worn during World War II. Conspicuously absent was their leader. Closing his eyes, James let his mind go where it wanted, and soon, he had a name: Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America. He could see him as clear as day on a stage with pretty girls in short skirts, dancing around, and encouraging the American people to buy war bonds.

For the most part, James ignored the press of humanity swirling and eddying around him until someone moved into his personal space. Slanting a glance to the right, he saw a man, bent with age, and dressed in a security uniform. His arms were crossed over his boney chest, and he too stared at the mural behind the mannequins. He inhaled and exhaled loudly. "Shame."

James kept his face averted and didn't respond, which he apparently he took as encouragement to continue.

"I met him a few times. Captain America." He pointed to another part of the exhibit. "He'd stand right over there and stare at the picture of Barnes like he expected to see something different, and was disappointed when it was all the same. Then he'd go into the video room and watch the presentation. _Again_. Lost count o' how many times he's seen it."

Nodding as if he empathized, James searched for a way to leave without appearing rude. The guard himself solved the dilemma by clapping him on the shoulder. "I've got to get back to my rounds. Pleasure talking to a fellow fan."

In moments, the man had been swallowed up by the crowd and James was alone again. Moving over the display indicated by the guard, he stopped in front of it, quickly reading the message.

The words "A Fallen Comrade" were captioned above a brief history of the life of the only Howling Commando to die in service to his country, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. One paragraph told of how he'd been drafted into the Army.

A black and white photo etched into Plexiglas caught his attention. He moved closer, his eyes darting over the features that had become familiar over the past few days. Prior to arriving at the synagogue, he'd only seen his face in reflective surfaces, distorted and unrecognizable. The hair was shorter, and only a day's growth of beard marred the baby-faced cheeks. Below that was the more recognizable name of the man, and a set of numbers.

James's lips parted as it all came together.

James Barnes

1917-1944

He wanted to turn away from what he was seeing, deny that it was true. Such an act would be futile because no matter where or how fast you run, the one thing you can't escape is the truth.

Forcing his feet to move, James returned to the tour group, always at the back. He never spoke to the others, responding to comments with a nod or a shrug.

The tour ended and the others rushed into the gift shop to purchase souvenirs while James let himself out the main entrance. He stood on the top step, hand shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, the wind ruffling the long hairs that hung over his collar. Then, he trotted down to the bottom and jogged up Madison. This time in the opposite direction from which he'd come. He jogged across the street and found a place in the park, away from prying eyes, to wait for the museum to close.

**Later That Night**

Flashlight in one hand and the other swinging at his side, the security guard cast the bright beam around the room, briefly illuminating the objects hanging from the ceiling, attached to the walls and setting on pedestals behind clear protective cases. As always, he spent more time in the room where memorabilia from the Howling Commandoes was displayed, shaking his head at the idiocy of those who'd decided that Captain America should be removed. He didn't care what the news agencies reported. Steve Rogers _wasn't_ a traitor to the US government, and there was nothing anyone could say that would convince him otherwise. To go by the number of people who still came to the exhibit, most of the American people agreed with him.

He shone the flashlight over the case where photos and documents were kept under lock and key. The beam flickered over shards of broken glass. Stepping carefully over the mess, he peered into the case to see that several of the photos and documents were missing. A long groan echoed in the vast room, and ended on a snort. "What the hell. This gig was getting boring anyway. Might as well clean out my locker and head home."

The light snapped off, and the old man made his way to the security office to turn in his resignation.

~~O~~

James returned to the synagogue long after dark had fallen, slipping quietly in the back way so he wouldn't wake Norman. He found a note on the front of the refrigerator letting him know there was leftover pizza in the refrigerator. He carried the box with him as he tiptoed to his room, and got ready for bed.

James's only purpose for eating was to appease the grumbling in his stomach. He took a huge bite, chewing without tasting as he looked through the photos he'd stolen from the exhibit.

The first photo was a group of men in leather jackets and khaki uniforms, holding weapons and glaring into the camera. They were standing on a dirt road that ran through a forest. They looked familiar, their names staying just out of reach. He set it aside and picked up another.

This one had a familiar face, the one he saw in the mirror every day, when he bothered to look. The hair was short, clean and neatly combed. And as in the previous photo, he was wearing a double breasted dark blue jacket, a rifle slung over his shoulder, one foot perched on a rock and the thumb of his right hand hooked into his belt. Standing next to him was the man he knew as Steve. He was wearing the same red, white and blue uniform as in the first picture, and holding what looked like a helmet. The date on the back indicated it had been taken in the spring of 1944. Again, images fluttered and flitted, never staying still long enough for him to bring them into focus.

The last photo was a full body shot of himself alone, head tilted to one side, a grin that was almost a smirk curving his lips. In this one, he was in uniform, cap perched on his head and three stripes on the left sleeve, the rank of Sergeant in the Army. Behind him, he could see a brick building with a set of metal stairs climbing the outside up to the roof.

Going to the mirror, he held the photo up so he could see both faces side by side. One image was clean shaven, smiling, neatly groomed, and wearing an Army dress uniform. The other was bearded, with long hair and a frown, the clothing wrinkled and a size too big. Raising his left arm, he examined the metal, flexing the fingers, a glaring contrast between who he was then and now. Before, he'd killed because it was what his country had asked of him to ensure their freedom. A few days ago, he'd killed because it was what he'd been conditioned to do by unscrupulous individuals who were trying to reshape the world with them in charge. The helicarrier platforms were the weapons they needed to enforce the law, to guarantee obedience. And anyone who opposed them would be removed, starting with those most likely to be able to defeat them as well as individuals or groups around whom the populace would rally in a rebellion.

A mixture of embarrassment and anger at his unwitting part in advancing HYDRA's plan made it unbearable to look at himself. James hung his head, the long hairs falling forward to brush his cheeks and the sides of his neck.

How did his captors expect him to live with the horrible things he'd done on their behalf? The answer was simple: They didn't. He'd gone off the grid, and was being actively hunted, but whether it was HYDRA, the United States military, or both, he didn't know or care, as long as those around him stayed safe.

He lay the photo on the dresser face down. Tonight, instead of his regular patrol, he would stick close to the synagogue.

The padding of tiny feet stopped in front of his door, and James looked down to see a white furry paw waving to get his attention. He let the cat in and she sat looking up at him expectantly. When he didn't say anything, she hunched her shoulders and jumped into his arms, purring happily when he held her close. He carried her over and sat on the side of the bed, his right hand rubbing her ears. Strange how something as simple as stroking her soft fur helped calm his agitated thoughts.

When James had lost the urge to hit someone or something, he put the cat down and went to the door to let her out. Looking back, he found her curled up in the middle of the bed. "Go sleep with Norman, girl."

She looked at him, made a slow blink, then laid her head on her paws and closed her eyes. Apparently, she had no plans on leaving any time soon. Resigned, James turned out the light and left the door ajar as he went down the hall and let himself out into the garden.

Scanning the outside of the synagogue, he chose a spot, and using the strength of his metal hand, climbed up to the roof. Surefooted, even shoeless, he walked the edge around to the front, his eyes roaming over the darkened neighborhood. A couple of cars cruised through without stopping or seeming to be interested in their surroundings.

Taking a seat, James bent his knees and rested his elbows on them, hands clasped together. He took a deep breath of the cool air, and exhaled.

As the sun was just touching the horizon, James climbed down and returned to the house. The cat was still on the bed, stretched out on her back with her belly exposed. He set her on the floor amid sleepy protests, pulled back the covers and lay down. Just as he was about to fall asleep, the cat jumped up and lay down next to him.

~~O~~

Early afternoon the next day, James was in front of the synagogue trimming the bushes growing along the fence. Norman knelt on a thick cushion, weeding the flowers. Far away, James could hear traffic, car horns and the almost musical refrain of children laughing and playing. Across the street, a young mother pushed a stroller, a little girl skipping alongside, bouncing a ball. The child had obviously dressed herself. Black leggings and flowered top were worn under a bright pink frilly tutu. Sneakers that lit up as she danced and twirled, and a headband with ribbons hanging down on both sides seemed the perfect accessories.

He gathered the cuttings he'd trimmed from the bushes and shoved them into a plastic bag. His head came up sharply as the harsh sound of tires screeching burst the bubble of suburban serenity.

The mother crouched next to the stroller to tend to the baby, and the girl stayed with her, holding the ball and twirling. She tossed the ball into the air and missed the catch. It rolled into the street, and the girl chased after it just as a car came into sight.

At first, James thought nothing of it as there was a stop sign on the corner. He picked up the bag and headed for the compost area in back. The tires screeched again, and James spun around, his eyes wide with alarm. The sedan kept coming, swerving erratically as it passed through intersection without slowing down, headed right for the girl still standing in the middle of the street.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Spoiler alert! This story immediately follows the events in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. Hope you enjoy.

As always, many thanks go out to ladygris and Lady Pandora for the tag-team Beta.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;  
>And you will know me still.<br>I shall be only a little taller  
>Than when I went."<br>― Edna St. Vincent Millay, _The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems_

**Winter Soldier**

**And You Will Know Me Still**

**Chapter 4**

Tossing the bag away, James shed his jacket as he broke into a run, diving head first over the fence and rolling to his feet at a run. He ran a few steps, jumped and slid across the hood of the car parked at the curb. Landing in the street next to the girl, he swept her up on the run, the mother's terrified shriek ringing in his ears. "_Ally!_"

James skidded to a stop and handed the crying child to her mother. He turned away, looking back over his shoulder when the blonde woman clutched at his sleeve. A single drop of moisture welled up in her eye as she graced him with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

A few days ago, James would've let the child die simply because she wasn't a part of his mission. He would've simply ignored her and continued on his way. But then Steve, the woman with red hair, the man who flew like a bird, Norman, and Lucy, changed his world view. A half smile crossed his features as he searched for an appropriate response. Then, he heard Norman point and shout, "James!"

He whipped around, and saw Norman pointing at the still moving car. The street dead ended just a few blocks up at a concrete barrier designed to keep people from the steep drop-off. As fast as it was going, the driver would be seriously injured or killed on impact.

_People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen_.

Breaking into a run, he quickly gained on the erratically moving vehicle. It sideswiped a car that had been abandoned almost two months ago, took out a row of recycling bins, the synagogue's mail box, and narrowly missed hitting the street light on the corner.

The road slanted downward causing the car to speed up. James picked up the pace until he came alongside the hybrid vehicle. As if it were nothing, he jumped, spinning in the air to land on both feet denting the hood. Dropping to his knees and bracing himself, he glanced in the windshield. The driver was unconscious, slumped to the side as far as his seatbelt would allow. His body moved with the side to side motion, head lolling at an uncomfortable angle.

Holding on with his right hand, James used his metal arm to rip the passenger door off and toss it aside. Swinging into the compartment, he pushed the driver over as far as he would go, then, steering with the right hand, he leaned across the other man, grabbed the emergency brake and yanked as he twisted the steering wheel hard to the right. The car came to a shuddering stop just a few feet shy of the wall.

He jumped from the car and ran around to the driver's side, opened the door and tried to unlatch the seatbelt, but it wouldn't come loose. Gritting his teeth, he yanked it free, the thick material parting from its anchor with an awful tearing sound. Then, he carefully lifted the man out and carried him to a patch of grass. Removing the glove from his metal hand, he touched the man's chest to check his heart rate, finding it too fast and irregular. Another memory briefly surfaced. An old woman unconscious on the worn carpet of the living room while a man knelt beside her and a younger woman spoke frantically into the phone. Most of the words were lost, but one in particular came through the layers of conditioning: diabetic.

A list of symptoms signaling low blood sugar appeared in his head, some of which could only be confirmed by the man himself. Unless…

James lifted his left hand, flexing the fingers, a small growl fluttering in his throat. No, it was too much to ask for that he would be able to help the man in the same way he'd been able to detect electronic devices. He could, however, feel the slickness of perspiration.

Norman dropped to one knee next to him with a gasp. James looked down, dismay moving through him. For over a week James had managed to hide his metal limb from his friend. Yet in his haste to save the child and the driver, he'd literally shown his hand. Not only was his glove gone, his shirt was torn, the sun glinting off the silver metal.

Norman touched James on the shoulder, drawing his attention the sirens in the distance that were coming closer. "I've called the paramedics. The police'll come too. _Gay avek_," the rabbi whispered urgently, giving him a push.

Averting his face, James tugged his cap low over his eyes, stood up and sprinted down the street away from his refuge. He chose his route at random to throw off any pursuers until he was several miles away.

Slowing to a walk, he kept his head down, not making eye contact. Everyone was so engrossed in their smartphones they didn't even look up when he crossed in front of them. Up ahead was a sidewalk café. A jacket lay over the back of a chair. The table was occupied by an older man engrossed in the newspaper. James snatched the jacket, walking to the corner and out of sight as he slipped it on. In the pockets he found a pair of gloves. He put them on as he reached the other end of the alley.

A police car cruised slowly down the street, the officers inside giving the pedestrians close scrutiny. They'd come from the direction of the synagogue, obviously looking at everyone moving away from that area. James turned and walked toward them, relaxing his posture, then stopped to look at a window display, watching their progress in the reflection on the glass.

When the police had moved on, he ducked down an alley where he came upon a man making a delivery to a thrift clothing store. Using a hand truck, the man wheeled several large boxes in through the back door. After a quick scan of the area, James jumped into the back of the box truck where he ripped open boxes until he came to one that held clothing that would fit him. He jumped down and hid between a set of dumpsters while he changed clothes. He stuffed his hair up under his new cap, pulled a glove on over his metal hand, and exited the alley as if he owned it. Though he was decently dressed and his clothes were clean, no one gave him a first look much less a second one.

Heading downtown, James thought about going to the library to wait. There, he could read up on the twenty-first century. The few times that Norman had left him alone in the residence, he'd turned on the television to watch current events. He needed to know what went on prior to being taken out of cold storage this last time. Nearly every night, his dreams were filled with vague images, memories, he supposed, of the times before. And each time, he forced himself to wakefulness before he disturbed Norman. Those times, he was reluctant to go back to sleep and would climb up on the roof until the sun came up.

His stomach growled, reminding him that breakfast had been hours ago. He had no money to buy food and refused to steal. Yes, he'd stolen the clothing, but he hadn't a choice. He'd come back later with money to pay for them.

Up ahead, another delivery driver was stacking boxes on a converted hand truck. He looked from the cart and back to the truck, shook his head and went inside. The boxes left were too large and heavy for the man to move on his own with hurting himself. Jogging to the truck, James hoisted the box onto his left shoulder, using his right hand to steady it. As he turned toward the delivery entrance, the man came out. "Hey! Where you goin' with that, pal?"

"In there." James nodded. "Hold the door."

The man, fit for someone in his forties, opened and closed his mouth then stood back out of the way. When James returned to the alley, the guy was sitting in the back of the truck staring at his phone. As James approached, he put the phone into his back pocket and stuck out his hand. "Name's Eugene."

James took offered hand. "James."

Eugene gave James an appraising stare. "Fella who usually helps out has the flu. Supposed to be back end o' the week. You want a job for a couple of days. Cash paid at the end of the week."

Giving the appearance of thinking it over, James looked down at his shoes then back at Eugene. "Deal."

Jumping to the ground, Eugene showed that he was the same height as James. Reaching for the heavy strap, he pulled the door closed and locked it. "Get in. Next stop is Michigan Park. We'll get a couple o' Brats and something to drink on the way."

"Sounds good."

"On me, by the way. You're doin' me a big favor helpin' with these deliveries."

The men parted, and met up again as they climbed into the cab of the truck and slammed the doors. The vehicle shook, the tailpipe belching smoke as it inched to the alley opening. Signaling a left turn, Eugene aggressively merged into traffic, coming to a stop at the light.

"Eugene?"

"Yeah?"

"What are Brats?"

~~O~~

A map of D.C. hung on the wall of the cave, pins of various colors dotting its landscape. Steve stared at it, thinking hard about where James might have gone. It would be weeks before the military was done fishing the wreckage of the helicarriers out of the Potomac. Even longer for autopsies to be done on those who died in the crash, if the bodies were even recoverable. Some families may never know. While popular opinion believed James had perished when Charlie went down, Steve knew otherwise. His gut told him that James was alive and hiding somewhere not far from where the first responders had found him. But where?

He felt a presence enter the room, a slight warming of the air and pressure at his back.

"You're not going to find him by staring at the map."

Steve shoved his hands into his pants pockets and sighed. "I'm thinking."

Sam came to stand next to Steve, arms folded across his chest. "If you were a super-soldier with a cybernetic arm, where would you hide?"

"Away from the patrols. Then, when I was certain they'd gone, I'd move on. The military's doing a house by house search. Every home and business. No one gets to say no."

"Guys like you have connections, so I assume we'd know if they'd found him."

Smiling ruefully, Steve glanced sideways at Sam. "Natasha's the one with all the contacts. But yes. When they know, we'll know. I'm just not willing to wait for someone else to find Bucky."

Nodding, Sam stepped closer to the map. "If he doesn't want to be found, then how're we going to find him?"

"He'll take refuge in his instinct for survival. Search out the basic necessities."

"So food, water, and shelter." He indicated the area surrounding where Steve had been found, including the warehouse district. "It's a pretty fair assumption that HYDRA and the military's been through the area with every high tech gadget they can get their slimy hands on."

Slanting a look at him, Steve twitched one shoulder. "Simms and his team didn't find any trace of Bucky during their searches." Heaving a sigh, the super soldier dropped into a chair, his eyes still on the map. "Not that I'm surprised. He stayed under the radar for seventy years."

Taking the seat next to Steve, Sam slumped down, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front. "So did you."

"I was under the _ice_. He was too, in a way. Kept in stasis until HYDRA needed to take out a roadblock." Mimicking Sam's pose, Steve too slumped down, his long legs out in front and his eyes on the toes of his boots. There was a long silence while Sam waited for Steve to say what was on his mind. Steve sighed. "I wonder if he remembers shooting Natasha."

That surprised Sam. "Your bestie almost took out the Black Widow? Brave man. Hope she doesn't hold a grudge."

Steve chuckled and got to his feet. "He wasn't responsible for his actions. She more than anyone understands what it's like to be brainwashed, to have your mind manipulated by someone with their own agenda."

Taken aback, Sam kept his reaction low key. "Maybe she'll tell the story one day."

"Doesn't have to. It's out there for anyone to see."

"Rather hear it from the source."

The opening and closing of the main entrance announced the presence of others. At the sound of Hill's voice, Sam was bemused to see Steve's eyes widen slightly, and his hands fidget. He clasped them behind his back to hide it.

_Looks like Hill tickles Captain America's fancy_, Sam thought with an internal smirk. Something of what he was thinking must've shown on his face because Steve shot daggers at him in warning just as Hill and Natasha appeared in the doorway with bags bearing the name of Thai Me a River, a popular Thai restaurant.

Both men rushed forward to take the bags and set them on the table, removing the contents while Natasha poured them each a glass of wine and Hill handed out plates and chopsticks. Sam rushed to take the seat next to Natasha, forcing Steve to sit next to Hill. Natasha spooned rice into their plates while Sam carefully avoided the glare aimed in his direction. He snagged a spring roll and some sweet and sour sauce for dipping.

By Natasha's order, all talk about SHIELD and HYDRA was _verboten_. And because he didn't want to rock the boat, Sam complied. A pause came in the conversation leaving an awkward silence. Awkward for Steve, but not for the others. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see Steve chewing while his gaze darted around the room.

Sam took a sip of wine, using that time to observe Hill. She too was chewing, only her eyes were staring into her food as if secrets were buried under the orange chicken and bok choy, occasionally flicking a quick glance at Steve. Sam's scrutiny was noticed by Hill, one eyebrow twitching up a fraction of an inch as a challenge.

Then, she used her chopsticks to filch the last steamed dumpling. Just as she was about to sink her teeth into it, an indignant voice pierced the companionable atmosphere.

"Hey! I was gonna eat that."

One side of Hill's mouth smirked. "You snooze, you lose, Rogers."

Steve huffed good-naturedly. "Least you could do is share."

As though they were alone, Steve and Hill shared a small smile. She bit off half of the dumpling then held out the rest for Steve, gesturing at the container in his hand. Sam almost fell out of his chair when, instead, his friend guided Hill's hand to his mouth, taking the last bite and chewing without looking away.

Suddenly remembering they weren't alone, Hill set down her food and stood. "We need more wine."

As soon as she was out of earshot Natasha snorted, drawing an annoyed glance from Steve. "What?"

"You'll let me stick my tongue in your mouth, but you won't let me feed you?"

Steve's snort surprised Sam, as did his next words. "Yeah. Because with your tongue in my mouth you can't _bite_ me."

A low growl came from Natasha's throat, more frustrated than angry, and she looked at Sam with a finger in the air. "It happened _one time_, and he never lets me forget it." 

Shaking his head, Steve explained. "We were on the run, hiding from HYDRA."

"You gave as good as you got, Rogers," she added, using her chopsticks to dig in her food container, one shoulder going up and down, dispelling any thought Sam had that the kiss meant more than providing a distraction for Rumlow and his troops.

"Just drop it."

Sam and Natasha hid smiles behind a mouthful of food as Steve jumped up when Hill came into the room, taking the bottle from her and holding the back of her chair until she was seated again. He purposefully ignored them and concentrated his attention on the smile of thanks Hill flashed him over her shoulder. She caught them looking and shot a glare that was meant to kill. Sam took the hint and went back to eating.

**A Few Days Later**

When his work with Eugene ended, James was once left with nowhere to go. He wanted to see Norman and Lucy, but feared someone might have seen him and called the authorities. And if they hadn't, seeing him in the neighborhood again could convince them to do just that. The men and women who'd searched the synagogue would take Norman, and likely Alice and her mother, into custody.

He couldn't let anyone else get hurt because of him, so he hid in an abandoned home and watched. From the attic, he could see the synagogue and most of the main road, but the soldiers didn't return. Deciding to take the risk, James pulled a glove over his metal hand, shrugged into his jacket and climbed out attic window and down to the ground.

With the cap low over his eyes and both hands in his pockets, he crossed the road, circled around to the kitchen window and peeked through the ruffled curtains. Norman was at the stove stirring a pot while Lucy watched from her perch on a chair to his left. The old man scooped a few chunks of meat onto a plate and set it aside to cool for her. Then, he filled two bowls, turning to set them on the table. He went to the stove once more and came back with two cups of tea. Once more he shuffled out of sight, and a moment later, the back door opened and Norman leaned out. "You going to stare through the window all night, _boychick?_ Dinner's getting cold. _Es mayn kind._"

Once he was seated, Norman draped a napkin over his lap and picked up a spoon. But instead of eating, he looked at James standing in the middle of the kitchen, smiled and motioned for him to come inside. Reluctantly, James joined the old man, taking off his jacket before sitting in his accustomed seat. He stirred the chicken and dumplings with a spoon, and when the silence got to be too much for him, he finally asked, "How did you know I was there?"

Norman chewed, swallowed and sipped tea before responding. If James didn't know better, he'd've thought he was doing it to make his guest uncomfortable.

"These weeks, I've come to know you some, _boychick_. I knew you wouldn't leave without saying good-bye. You know, Lucy missed you while you were gone. Slept every night in your bed, and prowled around in the day looking for you."

James felt a touch on his thigh, and looked down to see the cat gazing at him expectantly. Setting his napkin next to his bowl, he tested the temperature of the food Norman had put aside for her then set it on the floor. She gobbled up the treat, and licked the plate free of every drop. James used his spoon to give her another chunk of chicken, smiling fondly when she devoured that tidbit as well.

"I'm thinking you'll be on your way soon, son. Get out of town before them soldiers come to take you away."

The way Norman's watery blue eyes searched his face and his somber expression, James could tell he knew more than he was saying. More than he would say out loud. Lucy jumped into his lap and lay down, digging her claws into his thigh and purring. "Lucy will keep you company."

"Of course. Stay for the Memorial Day _simkhe_ tomorrow at down at the National Mall."

Confused, James brought the cup of tea to his lips and took a sip before asking, "Memorial Day?"

Now it was Norman's turn to be puzzled. "It's the day we honor them what lost their lives while serving in the military. _My__yn pryyand_ from the old neighborhood went to France in WW Two, and got himself killed by the Führer's soldiers."

Norman pushed back from the table and slowly stood. Seeing that he was in difficulty, James rushed to help him, letting the old man lean on his arm until James could let him down on the sofa. He gave him the remote, and the television came on. Snatches of dialog stuttered as Norman quickly changed channels. James returned to the living room with a fresh cup of tea, setting it on the table to Norman's right. He graced him with a smile of thanks and went back to his channel hopping.

Back in the kitchen, James thought about what he'd seen and read at the museum. He was supposed to be dead. Steve too. Did that mean their names were on the wall he'd heard about? Tomorrow, he'd find out. Tonight, he would wash the dishes, clean the kitchen, pet Lucy and try not to consider what might have been.

**Memorial Day**

**National Mall**

Staying close to Norman as the crowds pushed and shoved their way past, James felt uncomfortable and out of place at the holiday celebration. There were too many people moving about, ebbing and flowing, laughing, running, jumping, kids chasing each other while waving flags and twirling sparklers. Most were dressed in red, white and blue. Others wore their dress uniforms, stopping to hug others their age, obviously from the same unit. Some just stood staring at the wall. More than one came to attention and saluted, and still others reverently ran their fingers over one or more names etched into the marble.

Norman touched his arm and pointed. "My friend's name is there. Corporal Frank Balducci. His parents came to the United States from Italy a year before he was born." He waved his hands in the air. "When he joined up, his mother cried for days. But Frank, he had chutzpah. Wouldn't let no one push him around. Always he was coming home from school with a black eye or a bloody nose, grinning like he was _meshuggina_."

The old man chuckled as they came to a stop. Hands behind his back, Norman stared at the name with a far way look in his eyes, no doubt remembering the fun they'd had together. It reminded James of Steve, and he wished he could remember their time together. He stepped away to give Norman his privacy, and without meaning to, he sought out a name he didn't want to see, but felt compelled to anyway. And there it was. Just like in the museum.

_Barnes, Sgt. James Buchannan_. It was followed by the date of his supposed death. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it, stopping in midair. His fingers curled into his palm and he slowly lowered his arm.

His metal arm began to ache, and pain shot up to his shoulder, though he didn't know how it could be. The only time he'd felt pain in his prosthesis was during the fight on the bridge after they'd moved to the street. Steve had sliced his metal arm causing electricity to discharge into his shoulder and upper torso. He'd ended it by performing a quick reset by circling his shoulder joint.

Reaching across his body, he rubbed the metal bicep through his jacket and shirt, and just as he suspected, it didn't help. Flexing his hand helped some, though not enough. He took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out, jerking at the sound of Norman's voice.

"He family?"

James thought for a moment how best to answer that question. He supposed that, in a way, the James Barnes on the wall was an ancestor of sorts. The man he'd been then had died a long time ago, as had the Winter Soldier. To avoid any awkward questions about his family, he shook no. And Norman, the man that saw more than he should, peered at James over the top of his glasses.

"Then it's just a coincidence you got the same name." Taking James' good arm, Norman led them toward the shuttle that would take them to their next destination. He didn't know what the old man had in mind, and at this exact moment, he didn't care. They queued up with the others, and Norman gave his bicep a squeeze. "It's called phantom limb pain."

Unsurprised that Norman would mention his prosthetic arm, James asked, "How long have you known?"

"Suspected from the first day, the way you hid it. Then, when the soldiers left, I looked in the window while you swept for bugs, as they say. That's one fancy schmancy machine you got."

The shuttle arrived, and they climbed aboard with the others, taking the seat directly behind the driver. James turned sideways so he could look out both windows without it being obvious, as the bus jerked, bounced and creaked every time it hit a bump in the road.

They came to a stop, and by some unspoken agreement, James and Norman waited until everyone else had disembarked to do so themselves. Norman once again leaned on him, and when they turned around, James found himself staring up at façade of the Smithsonian. He slanted a look at Norman, who looked back with mock innocence. "I'm a Captain America fan. So sue me."

Knowing that Norman couldn't know his full history, James grinned, shaking his head as he helped Norman up the stairs and inside.

~~O~~

Elbows on the arms of the wheelchair, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan told one of this favorite war stories as his great-grandson pushed him through the Smithsonian. "…then Barnes says, 'Let's hear it for Captain America!' And Rogers stands there like he don't know what's going on, eyeing that girl…"

A much younger voice chimed in, "…Peggy Carter. I _know_ Gramps. You've told me the story like a _billion_ times."

"Hmph." His still impressive mustache twitched. "After all that _crap_ they've been saying about Steve Rogers, I thought someone should speak out. He's a hero in every way. Mark my words, Robbie, the world is lucky to have him and the Avengers. Without them, we'd all be dead."

"You come here every year?"

Dum Dum pushed the bowler hat back so he could see in the museum's dim interior. "You bet your _ass_ I do, and I'll keep coming back until the good Lord takes me." Robbie squeezed his shoulder, and Dum Dum reached up to pat his hand. "The only times I missed were the year your dad was born and when Helen passed. If you'd been a girl…"

"But I'm _not_." The boy brought the chair to a stop. "Look, Gramps. A bunch of the Captain America stuff is gone. His suit and some of the pics."

The sad reminiscences turned into anger. "Those sons of b******! We should lodge a protest. Make one of those, what're they called? A sick movie?"

His great-grandson laughed. "Viral video." The idea seemed to take root in the boy's brain. "That's doable. I'll get Trevor, Chaz and Simone to help."

"Yeah? How long?"

"A week, maybe. Depends on how many people we gotta interview. We can use Skype for that. Then there's editing and soundtrack. You get final approval, of course. We'll Tweet, Instagram and Facebook. Bet we get at least a hundred thousand hits and shares overnight."

The nonagenarian chuckled at his enthusiasm. "That's m' boy."

"We can start now." Robbie leaned down and pointed over Dum Dum's shoulder. "How about over there in front of the Bucky Barnes exhibit? I'll use my phone."

Seeing two men, one young and the other nearly as old as himself, Dum Dum put up a hand. "Wait until they're gone."

The younger man seemed especially attentive to the white-haired man in the navy blue driver's cap and matching windbreaker. His companion wore a khaki green jacket and cap, with a glove on his left hand, which Dum Dum didn't find odd at all. Many soldiers covered up the scars of battle in any way they could.

Several kids, all around ten years of age, watched him from a few feet away, whispering and casting curious glances his way. With a gentle smile, he motioned them over. After a moment of hesitation, the group of kids swarmed around Dum Dum, talking so fast he could barely understand them. He didn't even notice when Robbie left them alone.

~~O~~

Standing in a small pool of darkness, Robbie watched his great-grandfather have his picture taken with the kids under the watchful eyes of their parents. The irascible old man persona was just a cover for the kind and gentle man inside. He used to hide behind his gruff exterior, but that had stopped when he reached the age where he'd come to the realization that showing compassion and caring for others wasn't a weakness. It was a strength. At least that's what Pops told him.

As the two men moved on, Robbie saw the younger of the two cast a long glance over his shoulder as they passed under a bright pool of light, illuminating his rugged features. He seemed to have a permanent scowl and a hardness in his eyes that came from loss and physical hardship. His walk marked him as a soldier whose return to civilian life was very recent.

_He looks a little like that Bucky Barnes guy. Wonder if he'd be in our video? He'd have to shave and cut his hair._

Giving up that thought as ridiculous, Robbie saw that Gramps had an audience sitting on the floor, listening raptly as he told another of his war stories. Shaking his head, the teenager wandered away. When Gramps was ready for him, he'd call his cell.

He went into the theater to listen to the presentation, taking the only seat available. It just happened to be next to the old man in the blue cap. The Barnes look-alike gave Robbie an assessing glance as he squeezed past them, then went back to the movie.

~~O~~

With Norman engrossed in the film, James slipped out the exit and went around to the entrance to the Howling Commandoes exhibit. The purpose of this excursion was to appease his curiosity. Just for a moment, James thought he'd heard a voice from the past. Not as powerful and without the edge of cynicism, but familiar nonetheless. He had to know who it was.

He crept into the room where he could see the face of an old man in a wheelchair shaking hands with a group of kids and adults. They walked away, the kids waving as they turned the corner into the next room. The bowler hat and the thick mustache curled at the ends confirmed his suspicions.

One slow step at a time, James moved around in front of the old man. His gaze moved upward until their eyes locked. James slowly removed his cap.

Dugan stared at him in shock for a long moment then said, "Bucky Barnes?"

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Spoiler alert! This story immediately follows the events in _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. Hope you enjoy.

As always, many thanks go out to Lady Pandora for the Beta.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;  
>And you will know me still.<br>I shall be only a little taller  
>Than when I went."<br>― Edna St. Vincent Millay, _The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems_

**Winter Soldier**

**And You Will Know Me Still**

**Chapter 5**

James kept his expression carefully neutral, giving the much older man time to process what his mind was telling him couldn't possibly be real.

After a while, Dum Dum's jaw snapped shut as he rubbed a hand over his weathered face and said in a stunned whisper, "_Beat_ me daddy eight to the bar. That really you, Barnes?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to respond with a smartass remark as he would've in the past. Instead, he said, "You're looking well, Dugan."

"_Bah_. I'm _old_. Been old for a long time." So Dum Dum wouldn't strain his neck, James pulled a folding chair from behind one of the displays and sat down. The old man's eyes never left his face except to take in his attire. He pointed at the exhibit with his chin. "Thought I was the last Howling Commando 'till they fished Rogers out of the North Sea. Now you're here, looking the same as you did when you, uh… Where you been all this time?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"After what we've seen and done, psht, I'll believe almost anything." James looked at the floor, glancing up when Dum Dum gripped his arm. "Anyone with the sense God gave a goose can see you've got troubles aplenty, Barnes. You gotta let 'em go before they eat you alive. Take it from a man who knows. After the war, I came home angry at the world. Couldn't keep a job, drank myself stupid every night for months." He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. "Wrecked my car, and ended up in the VA. Got dried out and talked to a doctor who helped me see that it wasn't only me I was hurting with my actions. Once I figured it out, well, these eyes started seeing what had been staring me in the face all along."

"What?"

Dum Dum looked at the gold ring on his left hand, his expression softening into a wistful smile. "A cliché, Barnes. Before you is a man who was transformed by the love of a good woman. Helen was a nurse on my ward, a widow with two kids. We married within the year, the kids grew up, had kids of their own. Got three great-grandkids, and another on the way." Nodding, he indicated the direction the young man had gone. "Robbie's the oldest. Heading to college in the fall. Majoring in computers or some such."

"Sounds like you've had a good life, Dugan." James' enhanced hearing picked up the patter of applause, telling him that the film had ended. He didn't want to be seen with Dum Dum, and there was Norman to attend to as well. James stood, putting an end to their conversation. "I have to go."

Dum Dum held out his phone. "Got a number? We could talk."

Part of James wanted to say yes because he needed to be around people with whom he had shared experiences. He also needed the comfort of familiar surroundings to help him remember the man he once was. To see if he could be that man again. To do that, he knew where he had to go. "Sorry."

With one last nod, James left his old friend alone, weaving through the crowd exiting the theater to Norman's side. He helped the old man stand, and together, they returned to the synagogue.

In silence that spoke louder than words, Norman shuffled down the hall to his room. He called out for Lucy. The cat gave James a look of reproach as she trotted past with her fluffy tail in the air. Norman's door close with a click, leaving James feeling worse than if the old rabbi had slammed it.

James shoved his clothes and other belongings into an old duffle bag he bought with the money he made working for Eugene. In the living room, he dropped several bills on the table next to where Norman sat to watch television.

Moving silently down the hall to the kitchen, James stopped with one hand on the doorknob. Then, before he could change his mind, he let himself out and started walking in the direction of the rail line where he hopped a train headed north.

~~O~~

Norman heard the kitchen door close and padded quickly down the hall followed by Lucy. He picked her up and together, they watched James cross the street. Lucy murped at him. To console her-and himself-he rubbed her neck until she purred. "It's just you and me now, _bubbeleh_. We'll keep each other company, right my _tsatskelah_?"

Lucy made a sound of agreement as James turned a corner and could no longer be seen. With a sigh, Norman said, "Have a good life, Bucky Barnes."

~~O~~

The crowd from the tour spilt in two, flowing around Dum Dum like water around a rock in a stream, their excited chatter merely background noise to his thoughts. When he heard about Rogers coming back from the dead, he thought, as the rest of the world probably did, that it had been a fluke, a freak of nature that only happened once in a lifetime. He was startled out of his ponderings when his great grandson returned.

The boy stared in the direction Barnes had gone. "Who's that guy, Gramps?"

Gramps shook his head and huffed without humor, "Nobody, Robbie. A ghost."

The boy grinned. "Cool. He looks a little like that Barnes character. Ask him if he'll be in our vid."

"Do your Gramps a favor, boy, and forget you saw him," Dum Dum stated in his no-nonsense tone. Wisely, Robbie didn't pursue the subject.

The Dugan men finished their tour of the Smithsonian, though Dum Dum barely noticed. They returned to the National Mall just as the sun was going down. Soon, they found a good vantage point for watching the entertainment. When the sun was nothing but a thin strip of turquois along the horizon, the mayor announced the firework display. To Dum Dum, the pops, bangs, whistles and flares reminded him of the war and missions he'd gone on with his team. Lost in thought, his head jerked around when Robbie touched his shoulder. "Time to hit the asphalt, Gramps. Mom and Nana will have a cow if I don't get you home."

The elderly soldier harrumphed. "Damn women, always hoverin'. Can't even go to the damn latrine alone these days. A man needs his space, boy. Those women are crampin' my style. Know what I mean?"

The boy chuckled. "Yeah. Mom's always tellin' me to study and clean my room and do my chores. Not much difference."

He shot a look of reprimand over his shoulder. "Your momma shouldn't _have_ to bust your chops to get you to do your share of the work around the house. She and your dad aren't here to wait on your sorry ass. Pull your share of the weight. It'll be good for you. Besides, no dame's gonna want to hang out with a slob. This guy, George Carlin, he had it right when he said women are crazy and men are stupid, and that women are crazy _because_ men are stupid. Don't be the one that gives men a bad name. As for studying, you wanna make something of yourself, hit the books and hit 'em hard." A thought occurred to Dum Dum. "I never see you with a girl. Are you-what do they call it these days?"

Again Robbie huffed, longer and louder than before. "I'm not _gay_, Gramps. My friend Gavin is, and so's Tracie. But that don't matter. They'll always be my friends."

"I agree. You are what you are, boy. And don't let anyone tell you different. That crap about God hating gays is just that. Crap! God made us all different for a reason."

"Why?"

Dum Dum shrugged. "We're not supposed to know His plan for us."

The fireworks ended and Robbie began pushing the wheelchair toward the shuttle that would take them to the parking area. "You don't believe in free will?"

"Course I do." The old man chuckled. "Why d'you think people screw up all the time? Bah! They don't trust their instincts. Think they know _better_ than God. Idiots." Silence hitched a ride then, not leaving until they were nearly home. Robbie parked in the driveway and shut off the engine and pocketed the keys as he went to the rear of car to get the wheelchair. With Robbie's help, Dum Dum stood, turned and sat in the chair. He flipped down the foot rests, unlocked the wheels and rolled back so the door could close. "Remember what I said, boy."

"I will, Gramps."

Later, when Dum Dum had gotten dressed for bed, he muted the television and picked up his cell phone, holding it in one hand, thinking about his next move. With a sound of frustration, he scrolled through his contacts list until he came to Rogers' name. After the recent mess, he wasn't certain if the number would work. Couldn't hurt to try. The phone rang twice, clicked and continued. In his experience, that meant the call was being forwarded. And a few moments later, he heard Rogers' voice asking him to leave a message. "It's Dugan. Rogers, you are _not_ going to believe who I saw today…"

~~O~~

Steve saved the message from Dugan and hit the end key on his way to the War Room, as Natasha called the common area. He shoved the phone into his back pocket, stumbling to a stop at a very odd sight.

Natasha, Maria and Sam were in the middle of a yoga routine. Soothing music played in the background. Their backs were to him, and it took all his will power to stop the blush that threatened to turn his face pink when they bent at the waist to touch their toes and Maria's backside filled his vision.

Maria wore black spandex shorts that stretched taught over her firm backside, the muscles clenching with each movement. It gave him ideas that were out of place in their current situation, and Maria would be the first to say so. And if they knew what he was thinking, Natasha and Sam would gang up on the two of them dispensing advice, something along the lines of "We could die tomorrow, so go for it."

Movement drew his wandering attention to the fact that Maria had come upright and was watching him with a smirk that said she knew where his mind had been. "What's got your boxers in a bunch, Rogers?"

His eye roll was for her alone, then he got serious again. "We've got a lead on Bucky. Who's with me?"

Not surprisingly, Steve's three closest friends insisted on joining him. He nodded once in agreement. "Then shower and suit up. Wheels on the pavement in twenty."

His friends grumbled as they left the room, but it was good-natured. And he could understand the need to run down a hot lead before it cooled off.

Steve changed as well, putting on a plain T-shirt, sneakers and jeans, grabbing a grey hoodie and the fake glasses he's worn while he and Natasha were hiding from Rumlow and his team of assassins. With the ball cap pulled low, no one would look at him twice. The same for Sam. Though Steve could never envision a moment when Natasha and Maria wouldn't draw attention. Both were inherently sensual, making it seem as effortless as breathing. Walking behind them turned a casual stroll into a smorgasbord for the eyes. The sway of their hips was similar yet subtly different. In the absence of any other visual clues, he'd still be able to tell them apart.

He pushed back the curtain that covered the entrance to his room, affording him some measure of privacy, though it wasn't much bigger than a storage closet. When he took into consideration the fact that he'd shared quarters with a dozen other men in boot camp and slept on the ground or a bedroll while on missions with his team, the room was almost luxurious in comparison.

The plan for following the lead on his best friend poofed out of existence when Steve was confronted by Maria dressed casually in low-riding jeans, sneakers, and a white scooped-neck tank top. Whenever they were alone, she always smirked the way she was now, making him work to keep from stuttering. Taking a deep breath to calm his rapid heartbeat didn't help because now he could smell her subtle fragrance. Citrusy with an undertone of basil. Opposites that complimented each other in a near-perfect melding.

The hallway was narrow. For two people to pass each other, they had to turn sideways. As Steve approached Maria, she stood her ground until the last moment, barely giving him enough room to squeeze past. Her blue eyes sparkled with humor as he averted his eyes when he realized that, in this position, he could see down the front of her top. He muttered, "Excuse me," and quickly left the area with Maria's husky chuckle catching up to him as he turned the corner into the dining room.

~~O~~

Maria watched Steve scurry away like a startled rabbit. She should've felt bad for teasing him, but was having too much fun. Her smile waned as she reached into her sleeping cubicle for her denim vest and sunglasses. On her way to join the others, she slapped a cap on her head and pulled her ponytail out the back. Her phone was shoved into one back pants pocket and her wallet into the other just as she reached the dining room.

One of the agents vetted by Maria's former subordinate Eric Kripke was seated in front of an array of electronic equipment. His name was Eli Harrington, and he'd been the boat's chief of communications. Normally clean-cut with a military short haircut and ramrod straight spine, Harrington was slumped down in his seat with the keyboard on his lap. His sandy brown hair had grown out and a fuzzy beard covered the lower half of his face. The clothing he wore, baggy cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a tacky Hawaiian shirt over a white wife-beater, virtually guaranteed that he'd slide way under the radar of anyone hunting the castaway SHIELD agents.

"Your roots are showing, Harrington," Maria said to let him know she was there.

He huffed and reached for the sustainable water bottle on the table. "Eli."

"I'm not in the habit of calling subordinates by their first names."

His reflection on the monitor smirked. "We're not agents anymore, Maria."

"That situation is in flux." Shrugging into her vest, she rolled her eyes at his snort, though he couldn't see, and wouldn't care if he knew. "We'll be back sometime after dark. Don't wait up."

On that parting shot, Maria left through the steel door that guarded their refuge.

As she drew close to the vehicle, a battered twenty-year old mid-sized sedan with a large trunk filled with weapons, Maria could see Sam and Natasha already seated in the back seat. Steve was behind the wheel, leaving shotgun for her. From the looks on all three faces, there had been much debate about who would sit where. And she saw right through their matchmaking schemes. Yes, she was attracted to Steve. Though his physique was way above that of the average man on the street, he was no Thor, but then who was?

~~O~~

Eli waited all of ten seconds after the heavy metal door had clanged shut behind Hill to crank up the music to head-splitting volume and toggle over from data he was analyzing to his favorite Throwback Thursday game: Galaga.

~~O~~

Seeing her coming, Steve started the engine then waited until she buckled her seatbelt to put the car in gear and aim for D.C. Taking out her phone, Maria quickly tapped out a text, hearing a near simultaneous dual beep from the back seat once it was sent. Satisfied that she'd put the fear of Hill into them, she put the device away and stared out the window, only partially invested in the scenery until Steve spoke.

"We'll start at the Smithsonian. Question the staff."

"That's us," Natasha announced indicating herself and Sam while checking out her weapon. Sam did the same then shoved the 9mm into the back of his pants and pulled his jacket down to cover it.

Steve glanced at Maria and back to the road. "There are video cameras all over the place."

Turing to look at Steve, Maria made a half smile. "That's me. I'll hack in and send the feeds to Harrington for analysis."

"What's your part in this plan, Steve?" Sam tapped a rhythm on his knee with his right hand.

For the first time since leaving the cave, Steve smiled and shrugged sheepishly. "Distraction."

He parked on a residential street. They got out and joined him at the rear of the car. Natasha crossed her arms and shifted all her weight onto on foot. "What kind of distraction, Rogers?"

Steve opened the trunk with a grin. "A third grade class from Benjamin Franklin Elementary is having a field trip today. While Maria's hacking the museum's video feeds, everyone will be too busy to notice."

Puzzled, Maria picked up one of the items, gave it a cursory examination and dropped it back in one of the open boxes. "You're going to pass out Iron Man dolls."

"They're _action figures_," Steve stressed, "not dolls."

Sam nodded at what had to be hundreds of toys. "How will handing those out keep security off balance? I mean, they're just toys. Do you really want to draw that much attention?"

"I'm not." Steve's smug grin grew wider. Looking up into the sky, he pointed. In the distance and quickly approaching, they could see a red and gold streak. As it got closer, the streak turned into the shape of a man, and was soon hovering above them. "Thanks for coming, Tony."

"_No problem, Cap. I was just working on a project for the military that could have real world applications in the public sector. Running a little behind, but I'll catch up._" The power in the suit's repulsors dimmed and Iron Man landed beside them on one knee. He stood up as the visor retracted, and Tony's bearded face peered out at them. "Besides, when Captain America needs your help, it's easier just to agree."

Astonished and trying not to show it, Maria closed her mouth, shooting Steve a glance and nod. "Good idea."

"Of course it was, Agent Hill," Tony picked up one of the toys, using it to point at the other four. "JARVIS'll scan their network, leaving the Scooby gang to meddle."

How Natasha resisted rolling her eyes at the billionaire, Maria didn't know. She just wanted it all to be over as soon as possible. And not just this, but all of it. HYDRA, being hunted, taking down the Winter Soldier, hiding in a cave under a series of abandoned warehouses wasn't what she signed up for when she joined SHIELD.

~~O~~

Standing in a dark corner, Steve watched Stark interacting with the kids, and doing a slam-bang job. Over the years, Steve had come to the realization that his first impression of Stark was right and wrong at the same time. And aside from the occasion spat due to differing political and religious views, they'd actually become good friends.

The whisper of rubber soled shoes on the carpet heralded the approach of another. From the corner of his eye, Steve saw the elderly guard he'd spoken to on many occasions. Time to put Natasha's interrogation lessons to work. "Virgil." Nodding at the people milling about, he remarked, "Still drawing huge crowds, I see."

The old man crossed his arms over his thin chest. "The government lies all the time. What're the chances they'd be telling the truth about Captain America being a traitor? Zip. Zilch." He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. "A big, fat goose egg. All the times we've talked, I think I got to know you just a little." One arm swept through the air, taking in the crowd. "These people, they don't believe it either. In fact, I've been seeing some new faces since the you-know-what hit the fan."

Feigning just the right amount of disinterest, Steve muttered, "Anyone in particular stand out?"

Virgil stared at the ceiling, thinking. "You know, there was this one guy…" he shook his head and shrugged. "There was something about him. Stood right over there for about twenty minutes, staring at photos and reading the blurbs. Over and over."

"What'd he look like?"

"Little under six feet, one-seventy," Virgil cocked his elbows to signify a muscular physique, "buff. Couldn't see his face that well on account of the ball cap and that long hair. Had a beard, the kind you grow when you've been roughing it in the woods for a month and never bothered to shave. Kept his left hand in his pocket the whole time. Not much of a talker."

Stark was telling his audience a story about the invasion. All were listening raptly, the children holding their breath in wide-eyed wonder as he described flying into the vortex with the bomb. To this day, Steve was still amazed that his friend had survived the fall, thanks to the Other Guy.

Sneaking a glance at his watch, Steve asked, "He came in alone then."

"All but this last time. He was with an older man. Don't think they're related though."

"Oh?"

"I think he's a rabbi."

Giving up the pretense of indifference, Steve let his curiosity show. "What'd he look like? The older man."

Tilting his head to the side, Virgil seemed to be examining the memory for details. "White hair, five-nine, maybe. Blue jacket and cap, no facial hair." He chuckled. "Looked a little like one of those wrinkly dogs, but without the cuteness. Why'd you wanna know, Cap? Captain Rogers?"

Steve heard the guard calling his name, but didn't respond. It was time to meet the others by the WWII memorial. He hustled out the main entrance, jogged across the street and sat under a tree with his back against the trunk with his legs crossed.

One by one, his friends joined him. He got to his feet, brushing the grass and leaves from the back of his pants. "What did you find out?"

Maria's expression was solemn and excited at the same time. She cued up the photos and turned the phone so he could see, using her forefinger to scroll through. The first showed two men, one old and stooped, and the other young, with a straight back. While they could see the older man's features clearly in every screen capture, the younger man seemed to know exactly where the cameras were. All that could be seen was his back and sides. In the one photo from the front, his head was tilted down hiding his face.

With a touch, Maria started a video that ran for about 20 seconds then stopped on a poor quality image of the man. "Do we have enough to run the facial thing?" Steve asked.

Natasha snorted. "We're already doing facial rec on the old man."

The phone beeped, and Steve moved behind Maria for a better view of the display. The man's vital statistics were listed below a more formal photograph of the older man in a conservative suit and yarmulke.

Name: Shulman, Norman Yitzhak

DOB: 29 September 1929

Age: 82

Profession: Rabbi, Temple Shalom in Arlington

Marital Status: Widower

Children: Son, Robert; Daughter, Davina

Grandchildren: Mark, Isabella, Candice, Sabrina, Nathaniel, Zelda, Bonnie and Joseph

Great Grandchildren: Annabelle, Daniel, Roger

"Unfortunately, there's not enough of the guy he's with."

"It's Bucky," Steve stated brusquely as he headed for the car. The others hurried to catch up, Sam and Natasha again taking the back seat. This time, he didn't even bother getting annoyed. All of his attention was focused on finding Bucky now that they had their first solid lead.

~~O~~

It was lunch time at Temple Shalom, and out of habit, Norman set the table for two. Shaking his head, the rabbi returned the extra plate to the cabinet. James had only stayed with him for a few days, yet he considered them friends. He and Lucy missed their buddy. The boy wasn't much of a talker, but he was company.

From the things he'd said, but more what he didn't say, James thought he was a _fershtinkiner_. But Norman knew better. James was a real _mensch_. Cats were excellent judges of character. And any man worthy of a cat's devotion be a good man or Lucy wouldn't have convinced him to take her in. Nor would he have saved the lives of the little girl and the man driving the car. As his mother used to say, James was good people. Over his meal, he said a prayer that James would find happiness in the future.

Hours later, Norman had carried his laptop to the living room to work on his sermon for this coming Sunday when the doorbell rang. Lucy ran to the door, waiting patiently for him to open it so she could greet their guest.

The bell rang again, and Norman huffed in annoyance. "Oy! Keep your pants on. Don't move as fast as I used to…"

His voice trailed off in shock at seeing two men and two women standing there smiling in a way he didn't like at all. The taller man nodded. "Afternoon, Rabbi." He paused, for dramatic effect, it seemed. "We'd like to talk to you about Bucky Barnes."

**TBC**

**A/N:** Beat me daddy eight to the bar: Exclamation of excitement or accomplishment


End file.
